Great Are The Myths
by Vaguely Downwards
Summary: It’s Thursday. Aziraphale makes a decision. Crowley reluctantly acquiesces. There is a field trip and an unfortunate logistical error, because you know how it is with pocket universes. PG13 CrowleyAziraphale and a cast of many.
1. Reasons

**Title:** Great Are The Myths

**Summary: **It's Thursday. Aziraphale makes a decision. Crowley reluctantly acquiesces. There is a field trip and an unfortunate logistical error, because you know how it is with pocket universes.

**Rating: **PG-13 for language and mild violence.

**Pairings:** Crowley/Aziraphale

**Disclaimer: **Crowley, Aziraphale, and most other characters belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett; God and Lucifer belong to themselves, presumably. All poetry quoted is from Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_, and the title is also taken from Walt Whitman, who, I am convinced, created a time machine and travelled to the 90s just to read _Good Omens_. Oh, and as a note of interest, I did not know about Freddie Mercury and his daffodils when I wrote this, but I must admit the parallel is rather eerie.

**Author's Note: **Written for dragonofirony's goexchange prompt, "The author's choice of max rating; Crowley/Aziraphale one, the other, or both... also like the 4 horsepersons; would like more of a slash of Crowley and Aziraphale... the "good" and "evil"'s reaction to them, too". Posted at goexchange 2006. Many thanks to Twitch, my beta, who I cannot praise enough, as she is obviously some kind of superhuman, considering the fact that she never took an axe to my neck as the pages rolled in, and in, and in. Don't talk to me about ellipses. (Hey, look, I actually pulled it off!)

---

Great Are The Myths

---

". . . it was like passing through the gates of Hell and into Paradise, I do believe the two are located closer together than most people think."

_Alias Grace_, Margaret Atwood

---

**I. REASONS**

---

This is the mind of an angel:

Arched and archless.

From a two-dimensional perspective, it's all curves, all perfect arcs, up and down and across and through, never a straight line, never an angle. How circular reasoning, philosophy, and benevolent bemusement would look smashed together and put through a blender, then tinged blue and green and grey and inked with lines of infinite thinness and impossible colour. But add dimensions like Depth, and Time—and what is an angel if not Depth and Time?—come around to the side, and it's vertical lines, keen edges, shining in a deceptively velvety way. No touching, or you'll get hurt. Go around the other side and it's the same, up and down, like an egg slicer, silver and bright. But go around the back, and everything's reversed, a mirror image.

In the back of an angel's mind, everything is different.

There is also, at the same time, a certainty on which one could crack nuts—rocks, even. This is Right, and this is Wrong, d'you see? And it is Right to do Right, right, and Wrong to do Wrong. End of story, punctuation optional but no question marks and none of those finger quotes, thank you so very much.

This is in the front of the mind, where conscious thoughts make their happy homes. But in the back, there is fertile soil for Doubt, with a capital D.

An angel's mind is an immovable place to stand. Except when it's not.

---

Aziraphale sighed. There was no help for it. He would have to manifest some brownies.

No. A pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Ice cream, not frozen yoghurt. And a spoon. Or possibly a ladle.

He indulged himself too much, of course. He'd been worried about this for the first millennia or so on Earth, but no one had seemed to care, and so eventually he'd stopped thinking about it that much. Besides, this was _ice cream_. Allowances had to be made for ice cream.

He manifested a pint and an enormous spoon, and dug in with relish. It was cold, and melted pleasantly.

---

This is the mind of a demon:

Sharp sharp _sharp_, do _not_ touch because your finger will be severed and lying forlornly on the floor before you're even aware you've reached out. Edges and angles, mostly acute, all sharper than any non-metaphorical thing could be. No curves, gentleness, brightness, or glittery bits. Well, in truth there are glittery bits. They just don't glitter in very nice ways. Not nice at all. In fact, they _glisten_, especially in the minds of particularly maggoty demons, and even the word 'glisten' does not properly convey the oily, greasy, knife-grin quality inherent in the edges and points and spikes and spines of a demonic mind. Stabs in the back and paranoia are our speciality, get 'em while they're hot, which is pretty much permanently.

Colour consists chiefly of black and red. This can represent a number of things, depending on the mood and temperament of a given demon, as well as on the time period. During the Plague, Rotting Stomach and Festering Innards were very popular, while immediately after Hiroshima, Scorched Feet and That Fiery Light Behind The Eyeballs Right Before You're Vaporized was in vogue. Then there are the ever-fashionable Eternal Darkness Of The Damned and Blood Blood Blood, which go with anything(1).

There is a lot of grey as well. Theoretically this is the Shadow of Doubt, the Corner in which Temptations Lurk, and so forth. Really, though, no demon is entirely sure what it is, because no demon truly feels comfortable venturing into the grey area. Besides, blood's more interesting.

And so the question remains: What does the Shadow Know?

A demon's mind is a lever of infinite length. It moves things about that aren't movable. Examples come to mind. But it itself is movable, especially when put in the middle of things.

---

Crowley was incredibly pissed, or quite inebriated, or totally sloshed, or just really drunk.

Aziraphale had been, too, the first few days. After Saturday, they had agreed in a slightly eerie nonverbal way to sink into a drunken stupor until things started to make sense again or, failing that, until they forgot which way was up. This they did. But after the third day of prolonged drunkenness, Aziraphale sobered up and Crowley didn't, and Aziraphale went back to the bookshop and left Crowley on the floor of his stark white flat, nursing a bottle of tequila.

That had been two days ago. Now it was Thursday, and Crowley was having difficulty manifesting anything other than Miller Lite, which was unspeakably depressing, not to mention pathetic. The Someone-awful hangover was creeping up on him now too, green and spiny and festering. He'd never drunk this much in one sitting before.

Anthony Crowley stood up, tottered out onto the balcony, and vomited spectacularly over the rail.

---

Of course, demons believe in Right being Right and Wrong being Wrong, just as angels do. However, in the opinion of your basic demon, doing Right is for pansies. Or possibly even daffodils.

Sometimes, when one spends too much time with humans, doing Right just sort of happens. It's probably reflexive; the subconscious mind(2) might say, "Well, shit, that's inefficient", or "why should I do that?" and just _tweak_ the universe a little bit(3), and even a tiny change might unaccountably turn out to be not entirely Wrong. The really unfair bit is that it's not even noticeable, because Right and Wrong tend to be a matter of opinion, and humans and human-shaped beings are phenomenally skilful at deceiving themselves. Besides, if you think doing Wrong is Wrong, but that you personally _should_ be Wrong, than in a way it's Right for _you_, so doing Wrong is Right, and since doing Right is Right, perhaps it's not such a stretch to say that doing Right is Wrong, that is, Right for you as well, so perhaps Right is Right and Wrong is Wrong and it's all all right regardless, right? That's right.

It's the same for angels, only backwards and with more complicated words.

In sum, ethereal minds are a lot like Jell-O: mutable, oddly coloured, and with little floating fruit pieces inside.

All right, perhaps the metaphor could use some work.

---

Aziraphale sat down with the spoon in his mouth. Balancing the ice cream carton on his knee, he dug out another spoonful, letting the ice cream melt in his mouth before chewing on the bits of brownie in a contemplative manner. Just last week, he hadn't known whether he would ever taste chocolate again(4), so he planned to enjoy it to the fullest now.

In his opinion, you could take manna and stuff it.

A piece of brownie got stuck between his molars. He sighed happily. "Dental floss!" he exclaimed aloud. "Who came up with dental floss? Good job, that man. Nothing like humanity."

And there wasn't. Chimpanzees, while intelligent in their own sort of way, weren't part of the same spectrum. Even angels and demons couldn't be compared to humans. Free will again, or else the ability to choose between free will and just doing what the bloke with the machete said. And creative? Dental floss! Would the Metatron have thought of dental floss? Would any angel? No, because it wasn't Good; and no demon would have, because it wasn't Evil. Humans thought of it, because it was Useful and prevented tooth rot, gum rot, and bad smells. Ethereal beings don't give a damn about bad smells. Ethereal beings can tune bad smells out. Humans can't, so they cope with them. And so dental floss came about.

What about music? Not just the music humans made, but the music _in_ humans, the ever-changing trills of the voice, the art of movement, and laughter—the most astonishing music of all. Had it always been that way, even in the Garden? Aziraphale couldn't remember. What he knew was that no one appreciated it properly—humans didn't because it was simply part of them, and angels didn't because they didn't understand it and so, in some contradictory way, it wasn't really _real_.

There were things on Earth that provoked in him joy far greater than any celestial triumph ever could. The angel closed his eyes and listened to the heavy rain on the roof. Things that went together (rain, couch, ice cream; sun, picnic, park; wine, Ritz, Crowley—laughter—thought) soothed his soul to such an extent that, had he possessed the proper vocal equipment, he would have purred. In Heaven, he had been constantly serene and calm, so he hadn't realized how wonderful it felt to be relieved of stress and worry and to sink into the cushions or the grass with a good book and some chocolate.

A good book and . . . well, he had the chocolate. Aziraphale carefully dug out another spoonful of ice cream, putting it in his mouth upside down with the ice cream directly on his tongue, so his taste buds wouldn't go numb from the cold metal. As it melted, he shivered a bit; his hands, still clutching the carton, were getting cold. He could have manifested a blanket, but he decided to appreciate the cold first. Heaven is always pleasantly warm, and in his true form he was unaffected by temperature in any case.

He was, he knew, unnecessarily indulging in sensory experiences. He could always just shut them off. Any time he wanted to, poof, he'd be as imperturbable as a statue, never cold, never hot, unseeing, unfeeling, untasting—

Bloody _boring_. He laughed. It was, too. He didn't make any changes, and left his hands on the ice cream carton. He felt wanton, in a silly little way; it was rather nice.

He stood up suddenly and walked over to a bookshelf with the quietly satisfied air of someone who wants something specific and knows exactly where it is. Flicking his eyes from spine to spine, he smiled as his gaze rested on an elderly book (although, to be honest, it was not nearly as venerable as some of its fellows on the shelf). It was a first edition; most of Aziraphale's books were. It was also in pristine condition, which all of his books were.

He reached in and carefully extracted it, giving the cover a cursory and unnecessary glance—he knew it was the right book—and walked back over to the couch. Now he did manifest a blanket. While cold had its good points, warm in the sense of cosy was not to be sneezed at.

When he was in a contemplative mood, Aziraphale often got this book out. He liked to think that reading this type of poetry allowed his mind to wander freely and come to some type of conclusion eventually, however vague said conclusion might be. Of course, he was deluding himself. He read this book when he was worried about Things and Upstairs and Down There, and where he stood, and whether he was _enjoying_ things too much, and the reason he read this book in particular was because it led him to conclusions that were not only comforting, but inscrutably _sensible_.

He turned to the first page, inhaling the scent of ink and old paper, and began to read.

_I celebrate myself,_

_And what I assume you shall assume,_

_For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you._

_I loafe and invite my soul,_

_I lean and loafe at my ease . . . . observing a spear of summer_

_grass . . ._

Aziraphale paused. Grass and ants. Sandwiches. Ducks. Who had given him this book? He hadn't been in the Colonies—the States, that is—during that time. Had Crowley? He couldn't recall; but who else would have given him anything? He had gone over briefly for the War Between the States, of course, but that was a few years later still. No . . . Aziraphale had wanted to visit St. James's after Nash's remodelling, but things had come up, and he hadn't gotten 'round to it until the eighteen-seventies. Crowley had invited himself along, and, yes, given him this, in an offhanded way, making it seem as if it didn't really matter much, it was just a gift he'd been given that he didn't particularly want. It wasn't until later, when he'd had the chance to read through it (not stopping until he was done, as was his tendency), that Aziraphale had realized how much of himself was in the book, the simple first edition.

_The smoke of my own breath . . ._

_My respiration and inspiration . . . . the beating of my heart . . . ._

_the passing of blood and air through my lungs . . ._

Aziraphale had been discorporated many times, of course, by Crowley before the Arrangement and by various other means, including runaway carts, an unexpected cliff, a heart attack (only once, and Crowley had never let him forget it), and gunshot wounds. It was unpleasant, to say the least. Air stopped, blood stopped, all the subtle little movements of muscles and tendons stopped in a frighteningly _final_ way, and each time, just before he found himself in the Waiting Room and had to steel himself to explain what in the name of Heaven it had been _this_ time, Aziraphale had experienced a very mortal terror. He probably should have gotten used to it after a while, but he never did. When his body stopped working, it was a very definitive (if somewhat inaccurate) statement of the End of him, which angelic minds are not constructed to deal with. When he got a new body, he always had to restrain himself from running out into the street and screaming at the top of his lungs (this qualified as undignified behaviour in his mind) with sheer joy at being able to _feel_ again. And humans didn't notice! They had no idea how lucky they were! But he did.

_I have heard what the talkers were talking . . . . the talk of the_

_beginning and the end,_

_But I do not talk of the beginning or the end._

_There was never any more inception than there is now,_

_Nor any more youth or age than there is now;_

_And will never be any more perfection than there is now,_

_Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now._

_Now_. If there was one thing he had learned from Adam and the entire . . . Event, it was to appreciate the now. And he did, he truly did, and probably far more than he should have. He remembered the Beginning, of course, and he knew there would be an End eventually, but why shouldn't he enjoy humanity in the meantime?

It wasn't his job.

All right, what _was_ his job, then?

Bugger.

_I believe in you my soul . . . . the other I am must not abase itself_

_to you,_

_And you must not be abased to the other. . . ._

_I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer_

_morning;_

_You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over_

_upon me,_

_And parted the shirt from—_

Aziraphale skipped forward.

_A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands. . . ._

_I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,_

_A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped. . . ._

He skipped forward a few pages more, until he reached the following line, which he had underlined gently and carefully with a pencil years ago:

_The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall. . . .(5)_

He stood up. Enough was enough. He was going to have to find Crowley.

---

It would be a whole lot easier, Crowley reflected, if he could just find someone to blame.

He was not a happy demon at the moment. He was angry like he'd never been before, and he was nervous, but most of all he felt limp and drained. Had he expended all of his energy on Saturday? Would he just wilt away now?

He rolled his eyes. Oh, for . . . badness's sake, he'd produce a lace hankie any moment now. Obviously he wouldn't. Obviously he'd just keep going in the way he always had. Obviously.

Except . . . what was it the boy had said? "No more messin' about." No tugging people in different directions and confusing them, because life was, after all, confusing enough. Well, that was fine to say, but what did it actually _mean_? Did traffic jams count as "messin' about"? Did physical injury? How about excruciating embarrassment, or tied-up phone lines? He needed _specifics_.

Or perhaps what Adam had meant was . . . no. He couldn't expect . . .

Well, it didn't matter. He didn't have to do what the boy said. He could just keep going as he had before (although Aziraphale would object, of course, thrice-blessed angel), or worse even (because Aziraphale wouldn't balance him if he kept on as he had, and it would be worse for everyone than it had been before the Arrangement). He could tempt up and down Britain and into Europe and the colonies. The boy could just stick that in his pipe and smoke it! Or his father's pipe, perhaps. What could Adam do to him, really?

Rip his soul to bits, perhaps? And it wouldn't be the conventional ways involving physical pain. Adam would Know him like he had on Saturday, only a thousand, a million times more. This was not a pleasant thought. There were bits of Crowley that Crowley did not particularly want to see, scuttled in a corner and hidden away in the shadows of his mind, and Adam could easily bring them out, dust them off, and present them to him solemnly for inspection. If it was possible for a demon to go mad, he certainly would.

At that point, Adam would have practically infinite options to choose from. Would the boy erase him? Would he move him like a chess piece, to a different body or a different mind or—he shuddered—the Other Side? Could Adam go back and keep him from Falling? He didn't particularly want to know. That would be _weird_. Plus he wouldn't be able to hiss anymore, and he'd gotten rather attached to that particular speech defect.

He could do it first. He could go out in a blaze of glory, tempting all the livelong day for a few weeks until Adam caught up with him, and then, just before whatever was going to happen to him happened to him, he could discorporate himself and then destroy his ethereal body.

And . . . then what, exactly? What happened to demons when they died? Besides, he was rather squeamish around blood, particularly his own. Oh—and the angel (how did he always manage to get into Crowley's business?) would stop him before he did anything that tremendously stupid.

Crowley scowled, massaging his forehead. Free will, in his opinion, was not all it was cracked up to be.

He was wearing the same black suit that he'd been wearing on Saturday, much the worse for wear now. His mouth tasted like something elderly had crawled into it, defecated, and then died. This would not do.

He snapped his fingers in a listless fashion, and the suit changed instantly into a fresh one. It was—Crowley couldn't help grinning—a light charcoal grey. Yes, all right, but he didn't have to shove it down his own throat, did he? He was just enough of a decent ma—pers—entity, Aziraphale had said, with that spark-of-goodness talk he tended to spout when he was about to confront the Adversary(6). And the worst part was, the angel was _right_. Where did he get off, being _right_ like that?

Crowley wished he knew why he had a spark of goodness, because he certainly hadn't put it there. It really _would_ be helpful if he had someone to blame for that. It hadn't been the angel, Crowley knew that much; he knew Aziraphale well enough to be able to spot if he was trying some salvation, and the angel was as naturally full of guile as the average rock. Besides, if the angel really had been trying to save Crowley's soul, the result would probably be significantly more extreme than just a "spark of goodness"—whatever else one could say about Aziraphale, he was very good at his job.

No, it was the humans, wasn't it? He snorted. He'd always wanted to find what made them tick. Even back when he was Crawly, in the Garden, he'd been intrigued. What a stupid shape for an animal! It was so damn vulnerable: no claws to speak of, pathetic teeth, squishy skin, and buttocks, which he still hadn't figured out the purpose of. What had the Old Man been thinking?

Hah, well, it was all Ineffable, so he'd never really know. Nevertheless, he was curious. That's why he'd gone with the Apple instead of, oh, setting fire to the Garden, for example, or visiting Adam the First in the form of an incubus, which would certainly have caused a few problems. He'd wanted to know what would have happened if he'd let Eve in on some of the not-so-secret secrets. He had sort of hoped she'd explode(7).

The result had been far better, though—and worse, yes, worse too. He could write a book. Three books, even. Because once they'd left the Garden, it'd been a whole new world, one that was very, very easy to get caught up in.

Crowley sighed, made a face, and stood up, stretching. He miracled away the empty bottles, jars, cans, tins, and assorted other vessels and strode into the bathroom, which he never used, to get his mouthwash, which he loved. It was like setting his mouth on fire, only in a good way.

Swish, spit. Swish, swish, spit. And ta-da! The taste of week-old rodent corpse is _no longer in your mouth_! What _will_ they think of next?

Crowley stiffened. There was a shadow on the wall in front of him. It was not a nice shape. He hadn't heard . . .

He scrabbled frantically in the cabinet without turning around, searching for anything even remotely holy. Nope, nothing. Damn!

Armed with celestial mouthwash, Crowley turned around and scowled in a somewhat ferocious fashion at—

—the ficus plant. Which was in front of the window outside of the bathroom.

Disgustedly, Crowley tossed the mouthwash in the direction of the bathtub and stalked out onto the balcony. "Shit," he muttered, to the world in general. "Now what?"

A shadow passed over his head, and without meaning to he crouched down into a defensive position, ready to take flight and piss off if possible. Then he noticed that it was a pigeon. He swore creatively and in a number of archaic languages.

Television, perhaps. That was usually sufficient to distract him from anything less than a bomb going off outside his window. He went back inside (locking the balcony door) and switched on something banal and requiring zero concentration or less. Slouching on the couch, he regarded the screen blearily. People with romantic names were involved in complicated plots. He was pretty sure that this particular piece of crap was not his fault.

He leaned back against the cushions and let the distressed voices onscreen wash over him. People, he thought vaguely. Weird. He was weird, but . . . people beat all. . . .

Crowley woke up with a start and an undignified yelp when a voice started shouting at him from the television.

"PREVIOUSLY ON _ASININE PEOPLE DOING ASININE THINGS_: JANINE WAS DISQUALIFIED FOR SWITCHING CHALK WITH ITCHING POWDER BEFORE THE CLIMB! HORACE VOMITED HIS SLUGS AND HAD TO EAT ANOTHER BUCKET! ALBERT WAS FOUND IN A COMPROMISING POSITION WITH OUR MASCOT! AND THE SHATTERED REMAINS OF LINDA, LOUISE, AND JAMES WERE FOUND AFTER THE CLIMBING TACKLE BROKE! THIS IS: _ASININE PEOPLE DOING ASININE THINGS_!"

It was definitely not a voice of eldritch command.

"That is _it_!" Crowley shrieked. He waved his arms for a moment at the sheer cruelty of the universe, then came to a decision and stood up to leave the flat. As he put his hand on the doorknob, there came a tentative knocking from the other side of the door. He raised an eyebrow and opened the door to see Aziraphale, looking decidedly twitchy and fiddling with, ye gods, was that a bowler hat?

"Er, hallo, Crowley," the angel said. "I wanted to talk to you about something, if you have a moment."

Crowley gave a toothy grin. "Funny, I was just going to come over." He linked elbows with Aziraphale and began marching him down the stairs. "Let's go, then."

1. Rather like denim and reportedly pink, although tests on the latter have not been at all conclusive and are suspect in the minds of many fashion-conscious scientists.

2. Everyone has these, even ethereal beings, leading one to wonder what exactly Freud was tripping on, and how he managed to cross the line from hallucination to such dangerous accuracy.

3. To, for example, make all four wheels on a shopping cart face the same direction at any given point in time.

4. That's right: there is no Ben & Jerry's in Heaven. And they call it Paradise.

5. All lines quoted above are from Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_, first edition, 1955; the poem is 'Song of Myself'.

6. Admittedly Aziraphale had only done this once, but Crowley felt it was the sort of thing he would always say in that situation.

7. Entertainment in the Garden was about equivalent to entertainment in Heaven. The only additions were the daily march of the unicorns and the frequent—extremely frequent—sexual escapades of the First Couple. This just did not do anything for Crowley.


	2. Actions

_For summary, rating, disclaimer, author's notes, etc., please see Part I._  
--- 

** II. ACTIONS**

---

Having parked somewhere that Aziraphale was ninety-eight percent sure was not actually a parking space, they'd got out of the Bentley and were now strolling along in St. James Park. At least, Crowley was strolling. Aziraphale was sort of skittering along, and babbling about something related to the bookshop.

After a while, Crowley turned to the angel and grabbed him by the shoulder. "You're acting completely bonkers, do you know that?" he said. "What on earth is wrong with you today?"

Aziraphale looked at him wretchedly. Then he scanned the area quickly before dragging Crowley into an undignified and scratchy clump of bushes.

Extracting a scrubby leaf from one nostril, Crowley glared daggers at Aziraphale. "Well?"

"Well," said Aziraphale, wringing his hands, "it's . . . " He grimaced. "Look, you don't think it's all over, do you?"

"What? Oh." Crowley rolled his eyes. This again? Should he have brought alcohol? "No, I don't think it's over, but haven't we already discussed—"

"And," Aziraphale pressed on, "you don't think The Powers That Be are very happy with us, you told me."

"Yes, I'm a talkative drunk," snapped Crowley. "And I was trying not to think about it, thank you so very much."

"But you _have_ been thinking about it. Don't pretend you haven't, because I have as well, and you're exponentially more paranoid than I am."

"I said 'trying', Aziraphale, not 'succeeding'. Why are you bringing this up? It's not a fun subject. Now reality television, that's a fun subject. Or general-audience nature shows, with those delicious soundtracks. Or—"

"Shut up, please."

"Sure thing, boss-man."

"I mean it. Now _listen_. What I'm worried about, and tell me if this isn't what you're thinking as well, is that some enormous Wellington somewhere is going to crash down on my head for thwarting the Apocalypse. And it'll probably come with all sorts of lovely little crunching noises and a cat-o'-nine-tails."

"From my people?"

"I meant from mine. But probably yours as well."

"So, yes, enormous wellie. Nothing I don't know, Aziraphale. What's your point?"

"My point is, do you want that stupid boot hanging over your head for the next millennium, or do you want to get it over with now and get on with things?" Aziraphale paused. "Or . . . not, as the case may be. . . . "

"Thank you for that comment, it's definitely helped me see your point of view," said Crowley sarcastically, but without much rancour. It was irritating, but the angel had a point. Still . . . "I personally am just fine with avoiding punishment if it wants to avoid me, quite frankly," he said. "And I wasn't aware you were a masochist."

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed his cheek, accidentally squishing a small insect. "Avoiding punishment, yes, that's one thing," he said tiredly. "But Adam told us not to meddle in the affairs of humans anymore. And our _jobs _are to meddle in the affairs of humans. It's our entire Purpose, really. So we have a choice between doing what he told us and disobeying Them, or disobeying him and fulfilling our duties as ethereal representatives, hopefully avoiding getting into even more trouble with Them. Either way, someone high up is going to be very, very upset with us. At the moment, Crowley, I feel that I am being messed about with, and I must admit that I don't like the sensation at all."

"So what do you propose we do?" Crowley snapped in exasperation. "Storm the gates and demand an explanation?"

"Yes, just so."

There was a pause. Then Crowley said: "What."

"I think we need to talk with our, you know, respective superiors. To clarify things. I'd like to know where I stand." Aziraphale gave the demon a worried look. "Are you quite all right, my dear? You've gone all pale."

"What I need," Crowley said dreamily, "is a big concrete wall right here that I can bang my head against." He stared at the angel. "You're completely fucking insane, Aziraphale! You've officially gone round the bend! You can't be serious!"

"Do you honestly think I would joke about something like this? Crowley, be reasonable—"

"No! No, I won't be reasonable, _actually_!" Crowley shrieked. "What do you think is going to happen if we do what you're suggesting? Have you given it any further thought? Are you going to just march up to the Metatron or whoever and demand to see Him so you can sort out your contract with a demon and the Antichrist to the satisfaction of everybody? Your head'll be stomped on! Enormous wellies! And what am I supposed to do? I killed a Duke of Hell, Aziraphale! I am not going to be welcomed with open arms Down There!" He groaned. "Oh, shit, I need a drink. . . . "

"Crowley," said the angel in tones of steel. "Look at me." He gripped Crowley's chin in one hand and pulled his face forward so that he couldn't help but look at him. Aziraphale's eyes were a frightening colour, a stormy grey, and he was looking at Crowley harder than he'd ever looked before. The sensation was similar to the one the demon had felt when Adam had looked at him that first time—it had that same piercing, note-taking quality—but it wasn't quite as painful. After all, Crowley thought vaguely, Aziraphale had known him for a long time; he was probably just reviewing.

The angel let go of his face and looked at him thoughtfully. "You are afraid?" he said. It wasn't really a question, but he made it seem like one anyway.

"Of course I'm afraid," said Crowley, still looking directly at him. "I'm allowed to be a coward, remember?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale, and paused. "You know, I'm not . . . " He trailed off.

"You're not what?"

"Hmm? Oh." He shook his head and smiled half-heartedly. "Never mind, my dear. What I was going to say was, you've drunk yourself into a stupor for the past five days, and the only reason you do that is to avoid thinking about something. You're worried, Crowley. Don't you think we should just get it over with?"

"Can't we just . . . ask Adam or something?" For some reason, the prospect of talking to the Son of Satan was infinitely less terrifying than that of talking to even the lowest denizen of Hell.

"You know what Adam will say to us, Crowley. He'll say, 'No more messin' about'. That's what he'll say. We've already heard his opinion. But it's been nearly a week, and I haven't heard a thing from my people, and nor have you, and we don't have any idea what the official spin is or if someone's going to come fetch us with flails and spikes and a bucket to catch the ectoplasm in the middle of the night, and quite frankly I don't feel like sitting around waiting for the phone to ring for the next millennium." He paused. "As it were."

"We don't actually have ectoplasm," Crowley pointed out.

"Are you listening to me at all?" snapped Aziraphale.

"Yes." Crowley sighed, studying the carpet of pine needles on the ground. "I just wish you weren't making so much sense."

"So are you with me? Will you do this?"

"I didn't say that."

Aziraphale regarded him coldly. "Ah. I see," he said.

He stood up and brushed himself off. "Well," he added, "have a nice nervous breakdown. Don't discorporate yourself from alcohol poisoning if you can help it. I'll probably be back soon." He began taking incense, chalk, and assorted gewgaws out of his pockets.

Crowley watched him suspiciously. He was a bit too calm. "Hey, Aziraphale?" he said.

"What?"

"How d'you expect to chalk on the grass, hmm?"

Aziraphale glared at him. "Shut up, Crowley."

"I was just wondering, is all."

Aziraphale pointedly turned his back on the demon.

"Do you even know how to open without—" Crowley began.

The angel growled and turned on him. "No, of course I don't!" he snapped. "They only teach you the ornate stuff Up There! But please, impress me, Mister Ostrich-with-his-head-up-his-bum!"

Crowley stared at him for a moment. Then he said, "Do you know, I think that may be the best insult you've ever come up with?"

"Don't toy with me, demon," Aziraphale said sternly. He whipped out a few more sticks of incense from his coat pocket and flourished them in Crowley's face. "Sandalwood! Frankincense! Myrrh!" he barked. "The whole complement! And I've got lots of flavours(8)!"

Crowley's face contorted for a moment. Then he opened his mouth and gave an enormous sneeze. Aziraphale backed away hurriedly, brushing off his pants.

"I don't even have germs, you stupid angel," Crowley said, sounding congested. He waved a hand at the sticks of incense disgustedly. "Now put the bloody things away, and we can discuss this civilly."

"Fine," huffed Aziraphale. He buried the sticks in a pocket again, then looked at Crowley expectantly. "Well? What do you use?"

"I don't use a thing."

"Well, how do you—?"

"Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale," Crowley sighed, shaking his head. "Somebody's gotten ridiculous ideas into your head. The point isn't to be fancy, the point is to open the damn door."

He held out a hand imperiously and moved it slowly sideways, as if pushing an elevator door. An outline appeared, difficult to see in the afternoon sunlight. Wisps of condensation filtered out, and there was a brief moment of high, tinkling laughter.

Crowley shut the door again. "That was it, wasn't it?" he said.

Aziraphale stared at him. "You . . . you shouldn't be able to do that. Something's gone wrong. I need to—"

"Calm down, you great cherub, I can't go through," Crowley drawled. "Just opening, that's the extent of it. Demons don't have the power to undo those protections, not even Lucifer, and certainly not me. So was it the right door or wasn't it?"

Aziraphale nodded. "It was, yes," he said. "How's it done? You just—"

"You stick one hand out, right—"

"This way?"

"No, no, you're doing it backw—"

"Like this?"

"Ack, no! Horrible, bone-crunching _things_ will come out if you open that door! What kind of idiot taught you this stuff?"

"You did! Or rather, you _didn't_," said Aziraphale petulantly. "And I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. You're horrible at explaining things properly. How do I find the door?"

"You just—" Crowley began, and stopped. He sighed again. "Look, let me just guide you—" He reached out and grabbed Aziraphale's wrist with one hand and repositioned his fingers with the other. "You just reach out . . . right, yeah . . . till you feel the _catch_. Yeah, that's right! Now pull it open . . . no, the other way . . . "

Aziraphale stared at the hole in the universe. "I believe that my first order of business Upstairs will be to find Gabriel and skin him," he said. He stretched out his fingers to let the clouds spill over them, and he smiled.

"Such a temper," Crowley murmured, watching the mist. "Well, if you're ready, I suppose I should—"

He dug his fingers into the air and pulled sideways. Or at least he tried to.

Aziraphale turned only when he heard muttered and inventive swearing from behind him. He stared at the distressed demon with some concern. "My dear boy, what on earth is going on?"

"It won't let me in! It won't even open!" Crowley snarled desperately, scrabbling at the air in search of a purchase. "Something's wrong! They know I'm here, or—or they know I'm coming, and they don't want—shit, I _knew_—"

"Crowley, please calm down before you discorporate yourself again," said Aziraphale calmly. "I'm sure that whatever the problem is, it can be easily fixed."

Crowley gave up and shook his head. "I can't do it," he said. "Perhaps it doesn't work anymore for demons, this way of opening. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe they want to meet me up here instead of Down There. Maybe—"

"What do you look for?" interrupted Aziraphale.

"What?" said Crowley blankly.

"When you try to open the portal to . . . Down There," Aziraphale repeated patiently, "what do you look for? Or feel for, rather."

Crowley tried to shrug nonchalantly. "Blood. Fear. Pain," he said. "That sort of thing."

Aziraphale made a contemplative noise and reached out a hand, crooking his fingers the way Crowley had. He opened the gate with very little effort.

Crowley glared. "Something's wrong here," he said suspiciously. "You shouldn't be able to do that."

"I fail to see what the problem is, my dear. The doors are open. I'm sure everything will work out fine in the end," said the angel, and he turned to pass through his door.

"Wait!" said Crowley desperately. _I've changed my mind, I don't want to do this, it's far too . . . _ "Do you . . . do you have a plan? What are you going to do when you get there? I don't . . . " He shuffled miserably.

Aziraphale turned halfway, one foot on the threshold of the door, and for the first time there was a trace of fear apparent on his face.

"A plan, dear boy?" he said quietly. "What good would that do?"

He turned again to go, but stopped and said, not looking back, "And . . . Crowley?"

"Yes?" said the demon dully.

"Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine," said Aziraphale, and walked through the door, which continued to hang in the air, like a foggy window.

Crowley stared at it. Then he turned and stepped through the door Aziraphale had opened into dry heat. He didn't have many options, really.

---

The idea of Heaven being located in the sky and Hell being located under the ground is, of course, ridiculous. Aeroplanes would constantly be flying into God's offices, and demons would get crunched between tectonic plates, which would mess up the gears something terrible. Instead, each is located in a separate pocket universe intimately connected to this one, with paths back and forth for angels, demons, the righteous, the sinful, the annoying, members of several of the above, et cetera.

But you know how it is with pocket universes. They can be awfully ornery, particularly if you open a portal to one right next to a portal to its inverse. Generally speaking, this causes a shift and a tear in the multiverse that can only be repaired by the most powerful beings around.(9)

In the air between the doors, something electric crackled and sparked.

And, miles away, a boy looked up from his desk, sighed, and closed his maths book. Good riddance, anyway.

---

Aziraphale found himself at the end of a long white corridor filled with doors. He looked around. There didn't appear to be any signposts.

He hadn't expected a keypad to emerge from the wall, but, to his credit, he took it in stride.

"Good day. Wilkommen. Konnichiwa. Bonjour," said a disembodied female voice. "Welcome to Heaven. If you are a terrestrial agent, please press one. If you are recently deceased, please press two. If you are an invading demon army, please press three. If you have had your fingers cut off, please bash your head or other appendage against the keypad, and someone will be along to help you momentarily."

Aziraphale reflected, as he carefully pressed one, that the voice seemed disturbingly cheerful about that last sentence.

"Welcome or welcome back," said the voice. "If you are human, please press one. If you are an angel, please press two."

They had human agents now? Aziraphale pressed two.

"Welcome back," said the voice. "If you have any goods to declare, please press one. If not, please press two."

"What on Earth?" Aziraphale muttered under his breath, but he pressed two anyway.

"Thank you. Please press the number of years you have been on Earth, then press the pound key. For example, if you have been on Earth for fifty years, press five-zero, then press—"

"Yes, _thank_ you, but wouldn't this be simpler if I could just talk to someone?" Aziraphale pleaded.

There was a pause. Then: "Please press the number of years you have been on Earth, then press the pound key. For example—"

Aziraphale wearily punched in 6-0-0-0.

"Thank you," said the voice. "Virtues, please press one. Principalities, please press two. Archangels, please press three."

"I would very much like to speak to an entity with a brain, please," said the angel sharply.

"Virtues, please press—"

"This is not an efficient system!"

"Virtues, please press—"

"Fine!" Aziraphale snapped. He pressed two.

There was a pause. Then the voice said, "If you would like to speak to an ethereal representative, please press one. If not—"

Aziraphale smashed the 'one' button repeatedly with his knuckles.

"Connecting. Thank you for using HeaVone System."

There was a beeping and then a click, and someone on the other end said blandly, "Yeah?"

"Yes, hello, I would like to speak with someone," said Aziraphale stiffly.

"You are right now, aren't you?"

"I meant someone high up enough to be able to give orders!"

"All right, who are you?" said the voice.

"Aziraphale. Look, I really need to—"

"What rank?"

"I just went through all of this with your machine!" said the angel desperately. One would think that heavenly clerks would have solved this sort of problem.

"Just tell me your rank, all right?"

"Principality, terrestrial representative. Based in London. Is everyone in a meeting, or what?"

There was a smacking noise. "Mmm, lessee . . . " the clerk mused, rustling some pages. "Yeah, the Dominions are tied up right now . . . you might be able to get an audience with the Metatron, if he's in a good mood, ha ha."

"Yes!" said Aziraphale. "Please get him for me."

"Okey-dokey. What should I tell him you want?" Smack, smack.

"Er . . . clarification of orders and status?" Aziraphale hazarded.

"Cool. BRB, man."

_Be are . . . ?_ thought Aziraphale. He shuffled his feet.

Suddenly, through the speaker or possibly through one of the numerous doors, there came a muffled shout. After a moment, the clerk came back on. "Yo."

"Er, what?" said Aziraphale, not sure whether to be offended.

"The Met says you're in."

"Really? Oh. Good."

"He was muttering a lot. Looks like you're gonna have fun, huh?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale hollowly.

"Third door on your right. Have a nice day." Smack, smack.

Suddenly Aziraphale realized what the noise was. He pressed his finger onto the intercom button and snapped, "You're chewing gum, aren't you? Put it in the bin right now!" Then he scurried off before he could hear a response.

One, two, _three_ . . . and the Metatron's office didn't appear very much different from the hall outside. Certainly the décor was unimaginative. White walls, white floor, blond wood desk and chair . . .

. . . all of it brightly lit, not by any lamp, but by the shining figure of the Metatron itself.

All in all, Aziraphale felt, the colour scheme could only have been worse had there been hot pink curtains.

The Metatron looked up from its desk and gave Aziraphale what may have been a smile. "Aziraphale," it said, inclining its head in recognition. "This is quite the surprise."

Aziraphale nodded back uncomfortably. He despised heavenly protocol. It always made his soul itch.

"I assume you have been well?" inquired the Metatron.

"Well enough," said Aziraphale. "It has been quiet for the last few days, I must say."

"Yes."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then the Metatron said, "I expect the pace will begin to pick up soon."

"Oh, yes?"

"It will get back to normal."

"Normal? What exactly do you mean?"

"As it was before," said the Metatron.

"Before the Apocalypse, you mean?" Aziraphale didn't try very hard to sweeten his tone.

The Metatron's expression didn't flicker. "There was no Apocalypse, Aziraphale," it said.

Aziraphale nodded again. Naturally. Because if there had been, Heaven would have won, wouldn't it? And things certainly wouldn't be quiet.

"What are my current orders?" he said.

The Metatron raised one flawless, flaming eyebrow. "The same," it said. "Who told you otherwise?"

"The boy said I was not to meddle in the affairs of humans."

"You would heed the word of the Spawn of Satan?" The Metatron gave a rich, syrupy laugh. "Surely not, Aziraphale. Not even you."

"He is more than just the Antichrist," replied Aziraphale. "You must have noticed."

"He is an infuriating, stupid boy," said the Metatron. "Even if he were not, you do not take orders from him."

"Of course not." He shrugged. "But the fact remains that he could wipe me out of existence."

The Metatron regarded him, its expression unreadable. It said, "Has it occurred to you, Aziraphale, that we could do that also?"

Aziraphale stared.

"It has been discussed, of course," the Metatron continued. "You have made many mistakes. Now you talk of divided loyalties. You are pushing your luck."

"My loyalties are not divided," said Aziraphale, trying to keep his voice level. "I just feel that it would be impractical of me to ignore the fact that his wishes and your orders conflict."

"Ignore his wishes," said the Metatron simply, as if it was obvious.

"It isn't quite that simple. He is powerful. You do understand that."

"One would assume, given who you are and the second and third chances you have been given, that you would be willing to make any sacrifice in your service to the Lord."

Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed it again. He wanted to say that of course he would, he had merely wished to clarify, and he would be going now, thank you for your time . . . but he couldn't. Something had stuck, and the only way to go was forward.

The Metatron shook its perfect golden head ruefully, though the corners of its mouth were still turned up in a slight smile. "Come to the window, Aziraphale," it said kindly.

"What wind—oh," Aziraphale said, as one appeared in the blank wall behind the desk. He walked over to it, excruciatingly aware as he did so that the Metatron was now behind him and that his back was exposed. He wondered distractedly whether Crowley felt like this all the time.

"Look down," said the Metatron, at his shoulder, and for all the gentleness in its tone, it was still a command.

Aziraphale did so. He hadn't seen the camps of Heaven in thousands of years, but the scene was achingly familiar: white tents stretched as far as the eye could see, which was very far indeed, crowded together on a plain of pale grasses. There were more tents than he remembered.

"These are the tents of the angels," said the Metatron. "There are many more souls farther out. Do you notice that everyone is calm? No one is worried. You could learn much from this place, Aziraphale."

The Voice was right. Everyone in sight was walking slowly, sedately, seemingly without a care in the world.

No, said a little voice in the back of his mind. Without a _thought_ in the world.

"Everything does look very peaceful, certainly," said Aziraphale lightly. "I would have expected there to be some hubbub after Saturday."

The Metatron laughed its rich laugh again. "Nothing unusual happened on Saturday, Aziraphale. They know that. Why don't you?"

Aziraphale felt his fingers dig into the windowsill. He desperately wanted to hit the creature standing at his back. He looked down at his white-knuckled hands instead.

"None of them remember, you know," said the Voice of God conversationally. "Most of them _wanted_ to forget. They _asked_. The Saturday you remember . . . that wasn't reality. When the End comes, we will triumph. It is written. It could be no other way."

"You haven't learned a thing, have you?" Aziraphale heard his own voice as if from a long way off.

He felt the Metatron shift behind him. He turned around abruptly and stepped out from behind the desk.

"Do you expect me to be afraid of you? Of _this_?" Aziraphale said hoarsely, waving a hand at the window. "You are a mouthpiece, and that is all you are. If you think that He tells you of all His plans, you're even stupider than I gave you credit for." He shook his head, once, violently. "And what you've done here is sickening. I thought only humans . . . " He trailed off.

"It is His will, Aziraphale," said the Metatron in a level voice. "You are not privy to his plans."

Aziraphale laughed. "Nor are you!" he said.

The fiery figure that was the Voice of God narrowed its eyes, focusing the flame behind into a strip of blue. "If you will not submit," it said, "you must leave. Now."

"I would like an audience with the Lord," said Aziraphale.

"No," said the Metatron.

"You say?"

"I speak for him."

"Ah, yes." The angel gave a crooked grin. "I'd forgotten."

He turned. "I'll be going, then," he announced.

"Aziraphale!" snapped the Metatron.

Aziraphale paused, his hand on the flawless silver doorknob. "Yes?" he said.

The Metatron glared at him. There was a sound akin to jet engines revving, but throatier, angrier. "Once and for all, Aziraphale, whose side are you on?" it said.

Aziraphale shook his head and opened the door. "That," he said, "is one of those difficult questions."

He left the Metatron fuming in its stark white office, looking out on the plains of Heaven, filled with empty minds, and stepped through the portal back to St. James's, and ducks, and Crowley.

---

Crowley dusted himself off and looked around. He was standing on a plateau of rock, warm under his feet, with the occasional crag sticking up jauntily and an excellent view of the City, if that was your idea of a good time.

It was odd. He'd expected to come out in the middle of the City; he always had before. Nothing for it, though. He trotted down living stone steps to the valley floor, keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of activity.

After about fifteen minutes, he began to get irritated. The City wasn't getting any closer, and the air down here was thick with brimstone, unlike the clear air of the plateau. There was no one about anywhere. It was bizarre.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He snapped around to face it, reflexes as sharp as ever, and it ducked behind a stone pillar.

He stalked over and pulled the thing out. It turned out to be an imp. Crowley shuddered. They were even more irritating than demons, particularly when put in organising devices. One of the unintended benefits of staying away from Hell for six thousand years was not seeing—or hearing—any imps.

"Who the fuck are you?" he said, holding it up by the throat.

"I-imp," squeaked the imp.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Thanks ever so much." He squinted at the City again. "How many years is it supposed to take to get over there?" he inquired, indicating it with a jerk of his head.

The imp blinked owlishly at him. "D-dost thou need me to f-fetch someone?" it asked, puzzled.

"No, you stuttering cretin, I need you to tell me how long it takes to get from here—" Crowley tilted the imp so that it was looking at the ground. "—to there." He pointed it towards the city.

"I-I c-can get anyone you like," stammered the imp. "Anyone, anyone."

"Fine," snapped Crowley. "Since you're obviously _so_ important, why don't you get Beelzebub? I'm sure he'll come if _you_ ask. And bring me some sandwiches. Go on, shoo!"

The imp bowed obsequiously before disappearing in a cloud of sulphur. Crowley shook his head in disgust. Infernal toadies? You could keep 'em. Well, at least it was gone.

He started walking again. The only alternative was turning around and travelling back to St. James's, and Crowley didn't think he could bear that, although the not-getting-maimed-and-permanently-discorporated part was rather attractive; the problem was that he just _knew_ that, if he turned back now, Aziraphale would give him the Look. It was not by any means an angry look, but it sent the message very clearly that the angel was Disappointed In Him and Felt He Could Do Better. It was not conducive to anyone's mental health, even a demon's (especially this demon's).

At a later date, he would marvel with, as Aziraphale would and did say, undue vanity at the fact that he didn't jump out of his mortal skin when a voice behind him buzzed, "You rang?"

It was Beelzebub, not-quite-leaning against a jut of rock; the tiny imp huddled by his feet. Crowley eyed it speculatively.

"You did it. I'm impressed," he said, although 'scared shitless' might be a more accurate descriptive phrase to use.

"Not all of uzz have your dizzdain for the . . . lower denizenzz of Hell," the Prince said evenly, looking Crowley up and down. "They do have their uzezz."

"Didn't bring my sandwiches, though."

"What do you want, Crowley?"

Crowley started. What _did_ he want? He racked his mind. How could Aziraphale be so damn persuasive while making absolutely no sense? "W—I want to know what my assignments are on Earth. I've been given conflicting reports." He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying 'we'.

Beelzebub regarded him impassively for a moment before saying, "Really. That izz faszzcinating, becauzze I cannot tell thee."

"Come again?"

"The Morningzztar hazz ordered uzz not to mention you or . . . the reczent confuzzion." Beelzebub grinned, or at least parted its lips. "Izz it not nicze to have szuch szupport?"

Something about his tone was . . . off. Hell had never quite managed to pull off sarcasm, but it seemed like one of its inhabitants, at least, was making an effort.

"Question," said Crowley. "Was that an oh-I-hate-that-flash-bastard-who's-still-kicking-despite-having-botched-up-Armageddon undertone, or was it an aha-you-flash-bastard-you're-in-trouble now undertone?"

"The szecond szort, I believe."

"Ah." Crowley frowned. Damn. The first kind tended to be a lot more fun. Less painful, as well. "Is this thumbscrews territory, then?"

"Oh, how I _wiszh_," said Beelzebub sourly. "But apparently, no matter how _humiliated _we may have been azz a rezzult of thine . . ." He made a face, trying to come up with the proper word. ". . . incompetenzz, nothing actually happened. You, of course, did not purpozefully attempt to avert the Apocalypzz, because that type of thing doezzn't happen."

"Oh," Crowley said. "Er." What, he wondered, does one say in a situation like this? Thanks for not disembowelling me? Tell the Lord of the Damned I owe him lunch?

The expression on the Prince's face was contorted into something between a grimace and a sneer. "Of courzz you will remember Hazztur?" it said sweetly, or as sweetly as a being with a voice like a million flies can say anything.

His entire body snapping to attention, Crowley looked around wildly. "He's here?" Somewhere to back up against . . . a Famous Last Stand, right? Well, perhaps a Famous Middling Run would be more conducive to his health. Famous Last Stands were awfully overrated.

"Szadly, no. The Adverzzary izz well aware of Hazztur'zz . . . feelingzz towardzz thee. And thine entrailzz."

"Bet he wouldn't shut up about it after he got back down," said Crowley moodily.

"Actually, he szhut himszelf up in hizz officzezz with penzz and lotzz of paper."

"Oh."

"And diagramzz of catapultzz, we understand."

"Oh?"

"And copiezz of the _Malleuzz Maleficarum_."

"Ah."

"Hizz szecretariezz szay that he hazz been muttering thingzz like 'needzz more thruzzt' and 'where can I put more troughzz?'"

"Oh." Crowley swallowed.

"Juzzt a friendly warning, you underzztand," said Beelzebub, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Right," said Crowley. "Right, of course."

That blessed imp was still lurking around Beelzebub's ankles, staring at him. It made it quite difficult to think.

"I'll be going, then, shall I?" Crowley said desperately.

"_Yeszz_," buzzed Beelzebub, putting some extra spin on the word.

Crowley dithered(10) for a moment, glancing from the long path back to the portal, to Beelzebub's face, and then back again. Then he made a face at the imp, which squeaked and cringed satisfyingly, turned without a word, and stalked away.

He tried to add some jauntiness to his step, but he couldn't manage it, so he settled for skulking instead. This had not gone at all the way he'd expected, although he certainly hadn't expected Beelzebub.

What had he expected, exactly? Nothing specific, really; it was just that Aziraphale had sounded so incredibly sure that everything would work out. Perhaps one needed to be in the angel's presence to be willing to take these sorts of risks. Or rather, Crowley thought sourly, to take such phenomenal leave of one's senses.

And now Aziraphale was going to think him such an idiot. . . .

He scowled, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and turned a corner.

Behind him, there was the small noise of air hurriedly evacuating a space suddenly occupied.

Beelzebub sighed. "Are you szure that waszz wize, Lord?" he asked, resignation in his tone.

_IT WAS NOT MY DECISION TO MAKE._

"Szzo you've szzaid, but—"

_BEEL, WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS. THE BOY IS ALLOWED._

"What about thze . . . other one?"

_HANDS OFF HIM, TOO._ There was a cosmic sigh. _STUBBORN AS A MULE, THAT ONE. TAKES AFTER HIS FATHER, _the voice added smugly.

Beelzebub nodded. "Understood, Lord. I will see to it." It started to walk back to the city.

_OH—BEEL?_

"Yes?" said the demon patiently.

_I REALISE THAT FEW BEINGS HAVE PROBABLY HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO SAY THIS TO YOU BEFORE . . ._

"Yes?"

_BUT REALLY, YOU SHOULD WEAR SOMETHING UNDER THOSE ROBES._

---

Imagine, if you will, two magnets.

Take hold of the south end of one magnet and the north end of the other. Hold them apart, opposite one another, as if a circle separates them. Watch what happens.

The universe _creaks_. So much strain on such a tiny space . . .

A particularly observant person out for a stroll in this isolated part of St. James's might at this point notice a speedy evacuation from a certain clump of trees of anything larger than the average amoeba. Mice line up and flee; birds make a beeline for the nearest building. The ground is a moving carpet of ants, some carrying their little pill-white eggs, some carrying queens, all bustling and bursting with intensity and panic.

All of this is done in silence and with unnatural alacrity.

Inside the tiny copse, it's silent too, but the air tastes of tin, and around the doors there are mad flickers of octarine light. Between them, the visual impression is that of pavement on a hot day: the air comes in waves and runs, looking thicker and heavier than air should.

Like eager puppies tugging at cosmic leashes, the doors inch closer together. The space between them, feeling the strain, starts to gain solidity and, with it, colour, a thick indigo fog.

Slowly, painfully, the doors inch closer. There is a long, drawn-out scream of steel on steel.

The doors slam together, latch, and snag.

---

Aziraphale, concentrating hard on the hopefulness presented by greenery and daylight, knew at once, felt a rip in the fabric of reality. He felt something flash past him, a dense grey shape, and reached out—

—and shot backwards, hand still outstretched, onto hot rock.

He scrambled up, head spinning, and ran for the door. He didn't look back. He knew what was there.

He was nearly at the door, it was tantalisingly close, when something enormous and wide and heavy landed on his back.

Flat on the ground, he heard: "_Good_ dog."

---

Moving toward St. James's, Crowley was preoccupied, in the sense of being completely and utterly furious, and was focussing only on getting back so he could scream about the general idiocy of things to Aziraphale.

Then the light shifted, and something went _wrong_, and something brushed past him desperately. He tried to turn, wildly searching, and realised that the trip was taking far too long—

—and shut his eyes tightly against the whiteness.

Something slid out of the wall.

"Good day," it said.

---

There was a rectangle of haze hanging in the air. A few slightly charred woodlice that hadn't had the opportunity to bugger off heard quiet, staticky voices crackle away from the connected portals before disseminating into the permanent auditory haze that fills all heavily-populated human settlements.

_Surely not . . . not even you . . ._

_. . . thumbscrews territory, then?_

_That type of thing doezzn't happen._

—_expect me to be afraid of you?_

Someone else listened, too, and understood.

---

"Excuse me," said Aziraphale to the ground, "but would you please get off of me? This is highly undignified."

There was a howl of laughter from behind him. "You think so?" someone said sarcastically. "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry. Cebs! Get offa him! And dun't you try nothing funny, you," it added to Aziraphale, menace packed into every grammatical error.

The weight on Aziraphale's back withdrew, and he scrambled to his feet, moving into a defensive posture almost unconsciously. Then he stared.

"Good, isn't he?" said the demon Hastur, and patted the enormous three-headed dog fondly. It snapped at his fingers, looking fed up. He cooed at it.

Aziraphale did quite a good impression of a fish for a minute. Then he said, "You—you have an actual—but wasn't that just—"

"Yeah, the Greeks," said Hastur, shrugging. "Mad as Hell, the lot of them, and this is _me_ you're talking to. Still, the Boss liked the idea. He's a dog man, really," he confided.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the demon. This didn't sound at all like the infernal duke Crowley had described, or rather derided, so frequently. He seemed rather . . . cheerful, actually. Something was clearly Up.

Well, to hell with subtlety. "Where's Crowley?" he asked.

Hastur snorted. "He's buggered off, like a good little demon," he sneered. "The Prince let him go, too. Didn't even tell me he was here. Didn't want to _cause a fuss_, he said. Ha!" Hastur said, and he said it, rather than laughed.

"Mm," agreed Aziraphale, on the basis that it couldn't hurt.

"Thought I might trot along up here to see if he'd left yet. He did, the worm. You know he got me demoted? Well, he did. Dog walker, me." Hastur scowled.

"But that dun't matter, right?" the demon added, grinning a gangrenous, lock-jawed grin. "'Cause now _you're_ here, and the snake certainly won't come back, and who Up There is going to come for _you_?" He let out another surreal bark of laughter. "They know what you did this summer," he drawled. "And so do I."

Aziraphale looked toward the portal, and suddenly the guard Cerberus was there, simultaneously growling, drooling, and licking itself somewhere inappropriate. He looked back at Hastur only to find that the demon was directly in his face, shoving him up against the wall.

"You," growled Hastur, grabbing the angel's hair and banging his head against the wall as punctuation, "are the most _annoying_—Cebs, stop that—_annoying_ creature in existence. Except for Crawly. Because you are so stupid, with your _correct English _and your _sweater-vest_ and, you know, your general proximity to the snake, that just makes you even more annoying, not to mention stupid, stupid, stupid, because I know you helped him, and _annoying_, because _he's_ so annoying, and you know what—Cebs, quit it—you know what's great? I can't do anything to him, because the Prince said hands off, but _you_ . . . " He bared his teeth. It was definitely not a smile. "I can do what I want with you. And he _likes_ you. So really, ripping bits of skin off you is _almost_ like ripping bits of skin off him. Isn't that _nice_? And maybe we can learn how to _use a fucking ansaphone_ as w—Cerberus, for the hate of Satan, stop that right now!"

All three of Cerberus's heads were growling, not at Aziraphale, but at Hastur. In Dog, this particular growl did not mean, "Hey, there's a threatening man with a knife right behind you," nor did it mean, "Some complete idiot's left the stove on again". This growl, very clearly, meant, "You know what, I really, really don't like you. I think I shall bite you now."

One of the heads did so, while the others, demonstrating a lesser-known advantage of being a three-headed hellhound, continued to growl.

Hastur screamed, holding his injured forearm up to his face. Flecks of saliva seeped into his skin and then began to smoke. Hastur screamed some more. Then he hit Cerberus on the bum and shrieked, "_Bad _dog!"

The dog looked at Aziraphale with six-eyed woe(11), then put its ears back, slunk forward on its belly, and whined.

"Shut up!" shouted Hastur. "Get the angel and let's go!" His eyes flickered madly, as if lit from within by the entirety of Dante's imagination. (This was more or less the case.)

Cerberus picked Aziraphale up in its enormous, slavering jaws with surprising gentleness. Until a better idea presented itself, Aziraphale decided, he would hang there and attempt to think canine-sympathetic thoughts. Eyeing a hanging blob of saliva nervously, he rather wished he'd worn a rain jacket.

Hastur started to storm off, away from the hovering portal. The guardian began to follow, but then its ears pricked up and it sat down, looking around expectantly.

"You blessed son of a—!" Hastur began.

"Drop it, Zzerberuzz," said a voice like flies on carrion, uncomfortably familiar. "Thou know'zzt not where it hazz been."

---

" . . . Konnichiwa. Bonjour."

In the corridors of Heaven, Crowley stared. "Bloody hell," he muttered, "I thought _we _came up with this."

"Welcome to Heaven," said the voice. "If you are a terrestrial agent, please press one. If you are recently deceased, please press two. If you are an invading demon army, please press three. If you have had your fingers cut off, please bash your head or other appendage against the keypad, and someone will be along to help you momentarily."

Running down his list of options, which was very, very short, Crowley shrugged and punched three.

He waited, humming tunelessly to himself. Then he punched it again.

"Hello? Service!" he shouted, mashing the button irritably. "Hey!"

A haloed head poked out of the nearest door, caught sight of him, said "Oh" very quietly, and slammed the door. Crowley caught whispers along the lines of, "You tell him!" "No, you tell him, I told him last time!" Then an angel—he couldn't tell if it was the same one—scurried out, glancing nervously over its shoulder at Crowley, and opened another door.

There was silence for a moment, and then a scream of rage. A pillar of flame burst from the room, followed by the anxious lesser angel.

"I don't know," shouted the Metatron, "is it so much to ask for me to get five minutes of privacy? At this rate I'll never understand bridge! Why can't someone else—"

Then it caught sight of Crowley, who was watching it with interest.

"Oh. Poot(12)," it said, and sighed. "All right, then."

It clapped its hands wearily. Angels burst from every door, armed to the teeth, eyes blank, impossibly perfect. One of them tried to poke Crowley into a corner with, inexplicably, a trident. Crowley snarled at it; it regarded him coolly, not moving.

"Not much of an _army_, are you?" said the Metatron, who was still sulking. "I don't know what's got into your empty little head to make you come up here, but believe me when I say that you will very much regret it."

"I didn't want to come up here, you moron!" snapped Crowley, flapping a hand ineffectually at the diverse weapons being waved in his face. "The stupid portal went mad! What have you done with Aziraphale?"

"Aziraphale? Why do _you_ care about Aziraphale?" said the Voice petulantly. "Nobody does. He's a failure at being."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Being what?"

"Just being."

Something flickered in Crowley's head. He tried to stuff it down. This was not the time.

"Look," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "just tell me how to get back to London and I'll leave. Heav—_I _know that I don't want to be here."

The Metatron shrugged. "I would assume you go back through the portal."

"Thank you, Holmes," snapped Crowley, "but this portal goes to Hell."

The assembled angels froze. The Metatron turned slowly to look at him.

"What," it said carefully, "did you say?"

"This. Portal. Goes. To. Hell," said Crowley. "It's supposed to go to London. Some idiot's messed with the wiring again."

Spits of flame shot up erratically from the Metatron. "No," it said, "no, because you shouldn't be able to . . . you shouldn't . . . unless—no." A contorted look flashed over its face. "It's Aziraphale, isn't it?" the Metatron growled. "He's done some sort of—messed with it—broken the barriers—probably didn't even mean to—klutz—idiot—so many chances to—"

There was, for some reason, a rock in Crowley's pocket. A tiny rock, more like a pebble, really. And then suddenly it was flying through the air towards the Metatron. It fell through the Voice and landed with a plop on the pristine floor, bubbling slightly.

The Metatron paused, closed its mouth, and regarded him solemnly. "Get him," it said quietly.

The angels moved faster than even Crowley's eye could follow. As the ranks closed in around him, Crowley was mildly disgusted to find that, even as the nearest chalk-faced angel drew back its pike to run him through, he was still waiting for a deus ex machina that he was unshakably certain would come.

He was even more disgusted when it did.

For lo, the silence of the multitudes was broken by a Voice, which spake thusly:

_HEY! CUT THAT OUT!_

The angel currently occupying Crowley's full attention didn't seem to hear, but that didn't actually matter, because unseen hands hoisted it and one of its companions into the air and, in the tradition of bouncers everywhere, banged their heads together.

_I _SAID_, CUT THAT OUT!_

One angel hung in the air listlessly; the other said in a flat voice, "It is a demon, Lord. It must be destroyed."

There was an enormous _tsk_ of annoyance, and the angels flopped to the ground. _RIGHT. FORGET COMPASSION. FORGET DO UNTO OTHERS. THAT'S SO LAST MILLENIUM. WHY DO I BOTHER?_

The Metatron, which had been gaping in the general direction of the erstwhile attack-angels, finally found its voice and spluttered, "L-lord! What are you—?"

_OH, SHUT UP, METATRON._

The Metatron swelled with fury. Crowley was impressed despite himself; he would have opted for cringing and bowing, himself. Not the Voice, though. It was astonishing in its stupidity.

"My Lord," it said with measured dignity, "You must speak through me, to preserve Your detachment from and objectivity to the world and its souls. It is—"

_WELL, THAT WOULD BE JUST LOVELY, _said the disembodied voice sarcastically, _IF YOU WOULD ACTUALLY SAY WHAT I TELL YOU TO SAY._ There was a sigh like a desert gale. _I KNEW I SHOULDN'T HAVE GIVEN YOU LOT EGOS._

"But—" the Metatron began. Then it went cross-eyed and clawed at its mouth, which seemed very disinclined to open.

_THAT'S THE TROUBLE WITH ANGELS. THEY'RE LIKE PUREBRED DOGS, _said the voice philosophically. _ALL SPOTS AND SLEEK LINES AND NERVOUSNESS._ It chuckled. _HELLFIRE AND DALMATIANS. HELLO, BY THE WAY . . . CRAWLY, ISN'T IT? IT'S BEEN AGES._

"Mhn," said Crowley.

_RIGHT, WELL, SORRY, THERE'S BEEN A BIT OF A MISUNDERSTANDING. YOU CAN LEAVE IN PEACE. THEY WON'T HURT YOU NOW._

Crowley nodded numbly and turned to leave. Then he turned back.

The hall was totally silent. All of the angels watched him impassively, their weapons held in limp hands. They didn't move, not even their eyes.

"Wait a moment," Crowley said peevishly. He craned his neck in an effort to locate where the voice had come from. "What's wrong with them? They're not even snarling! They always used to snarl. Angels like a good snarl. I should know. What's going on?"

There was a very pointed silence.

Crowley snorted. "Right," he said. "Ineffable. I forgot. But see, the thing is . . . " The demon gave his sharpest flash-bastard grin, the one he'd so often practised in the rear-view mirror at stoplights. "Sometimes the Ineffable Plan is the Ineffable Plan, and sometimes it's just an excuse not to explain how horribly you've botched something up, you know what I mean?"

There was another pause. Then:

_LEAVE,_said the voice. The temperature dropped drastically.

"Where. Is. Aziraphale?" Crowley said levelly.

_BELOW._

"You—_what_? Oh, shit."

_AND WATCH YOUR MOUTH, YOU, _the voice added as Crowley scuttled to the portal.

Crowley paused, feet on the edge, and looked back at the Metatron, still staring at him with undisguised fury in its fiery eyes. What a berk, he thought.

Crowley gave it a winning grin and lifted his hand up to his ear, little finger and thumb outstretched, mouthing, "Call me".

It would be nice to say the Metatron exploded. However, watching its contorted expression as he stepped sideways into the portal, Crowley rather felt that would have been too easy.

God watched him go, shaking a metaphorical head. _WHAT A MESS,_ God said. _WHERE'S MY BLOODY GUM?_

---

"_Hazztur_," said Beelzebub, leaning against a ledge of rock and staring at the duke with his horrible crimson eyes.

"Yes, Lord?" Hastur seemed to be trying to turn himself inside out to avoid the Prince's gaze.

"What art thou doing, Hazztur?"

"I, er," said Hastur. "I was, er, patrolling with the dog, like you told me, Lord, and—"

"You felt it neczezzary to zztrike the animal? You wiszh for the Mazzter to become even angrier?" Beelzebub glared. "You are already being puniszhed! Thou know'zzt how He dotezz on the Beazzt! Fool!"

Hastur actually whimpered. Aziraphale, wiping massive amounts of hellhound drool off of his coat, rather wished he'd had the foresight to bring an audio recording device of some sort. Purely for Crowley's sake, of course.

The Prince turned his molten gaze on Aziraphale. He looked at the angel blankly for a moment before vague recognition set in. "Oh . . . the Princzipality, izzn't it? What pozzeszed you, metaphzorically szzpeaking of courzze, to come down _here_?"

"I assure you, it was not intentional," Aziraphale replied warily. This was, after all, the Lord of the Flies. He could do far more than haunt pig skulls.

"Oh, another tear in the fabric of szpace-time its-bloody-szelf, izz it?" Beelzebub rolled his eyes. "Happenzz all the time around here. Zzomething else Himself botched up, I might add. All hail Szatan," he added loyally.

"All hail Satan," squeaked Hastur, who had retreated to stand behind Beelzebub, practically vibrating with nervous eagerness.

Beelzebub paid him one brief, disgusted glance, then turned back to Aziraphale. "Thou muzzt leave now, light one," he said. "We have been forbidden to harm you or the sznake, but do not doubt that there are thoze who would disobey even the highezzt orderzz."

He turned to go.

"Hold on a moment, please!" Aziraphale said.

"Yeszz?" droned the Prince, looking at the angel over his shoulder.

Aziraphale exhaled sharply. He wasn't happy about what he was about to ask, but what choice did he have?

"I wish to go to Earth," he said. "This portal leads to Heaven. I don't think I can open another one here. Do you know how to change the final location on one of these?"

"Heaven?" Beelzebub raised one perfect eyebrow. "That'zz odd. Still . . . everything happenzz for a reazzon, or szo we have been told." It paused.

"Will you help, then?" Aziraphale said desperately.

"Don't be ridiculouzz," snapped Beelzebub. "Juzzt becauzz I am forbidden to harm you doezz not mean that I am allowed to help you, much lesszz that I want to. Besides—" There was the merest suspicion of a flicker in the Prince's eye. "—perhapzz Heaven izz the better placze for angelzz at thizz time. Ineffable merczy and all that."

For a moment, Aziraphale saw again the empty faces of the Heavenly Host, the endless tents in pale grass. He wondered what had happened to the ones that _hadn't_ wanted to forget.

"I doubt that," he said aloud. "I sincerely doubt that."

Beelzebub regarded him impassively. Aziraphale sighed and turned toward the portal, and heard a crunch of rock behind him that signalled Beelzebub's slow departure.

The only warning was a short, low bark behind him and the sharp snarling of rock on rock, and then Aziraphale was pinned to the wall by his throat.

"Never turn your back," sneered Hastur.

Aziraphale tried desperately not to struggle, to persuade his body that air was not, strictly speaking, necessary, but bodies generally don't buy into that sort of thing in the heat of the moment, and his didn't. He flailed wildly, tugging at the arm pressed to his windpipe.

"Don't bother," snarled the demon. "We've been _forbidden to harm you_, remember? So for _sure_ I won't harm a hair on your lovely, fragile head, right? Ha!" he added, in a tone that fairly easily conveyed the message, 'Wrong!'

Behind him, Cerberus howled, mournful and high and in eerie harmony with himself.

All across the stones, hellhounds looked up and bayed in response.

"Now you listen to me, you son of the Father," Hastur growled, shoving his greasy face into Aziraphale's so that they were nearly knocking foreheads. "I haven't forgotten. I don't forget. That snake has it coming. Sooner or later this fuss'll be over, and then . . . " He snapped his teeth. "Both of you. It's only a matter of time. So you had better watch your—"

"Oof!" said Crowley, tumbled head over heels out of the portal.

"What?" Hastur snapped, whipping his head around.

"What?" Crowley said, looking up. "Hey! What are you—Aziraphale!"

Later Aziraphale would look back on the subsequent events and cringe, and Crowley would look back and preen. At that moment, however, Aziraphale's confused human brain was deprived of oxygen, and he was frightened, and his vision was starting to blur; Crowley, for his part, was riding on rage and fear and hatred and paranoia and something similar to all of the above, which combined into a cocktail of red-hot emotion and adrenaline-fuelled insanity. At least, that was the reason he came up with later.

It was not a dignified blow, nor did it have much strength behind it. It was one of those instinctual bite-me-you-bastard slaps that sometimes work and sometimes don't. It wouldn't have in this case, if not for the fact that Hastur wasn't expecting it and wasn't nearly as well-versed in human pain as he might have been.

Hastur staggered backward, away from Aziraphale, clutching his cheek, staring at Crowley, who was holding his hand to his chest and swearing creatively. Aziraphale sagged to the stone ground, massaging his neck, and looked at Crowley in shock.

Hastur effectively broke the heavy silence that followed by roaring, "_I'm going to kill you_!" and leaping at Crowley, claws extended and already beginning to trail maggots.

As Aziraphale shouted something unintelligible and struggled to his feet, there came a moan from behind the nearest rocky pillar. Beelzebub rounded it furiously, started to say, "Hazztur, I am szick of thizz behaviour, do not think that you won't be reported to the—", and stopped in his tracks, staring at the tableau before him. His expression hardened; his eyes narrowed.

In the silence, Crowley moved slowly and deliberately to stand between the other demons and Aziraphale.

"Crowley," the Prince said eventually. "What hast thou—"

"Hit me, Lord," growled Hastur. "The bastard _hit_ me. Look!" He pointed to the blurred hand mark on his cheek, which was still a mottled purple and seemed to be swelling.

"I know that, you idiot, I was attempting to make a dramatic sztatement!" snapped Beelzebub.

He looked at Crowley. Crowley looked back.

"Inszolencze," said Beelzebub in a low voice. "Inszolencze and sztupidity. You had a chancze, Crowley. That izz more than anyone elsze hazz ever gotten. But thou hast broken the deal."

He turned to Hastur. "Do with them azz you will," it said. "And pleazz do not write up a report." And he turned to go.

Crowley looked at Hastur. Nothing looked back.

The duke's arm flew out and grabbed Crowley, dragging him away from the portal and the angel. Crowley frantically scanned the rock-strewn plateau, but there can be no deus ex machina in a godless place.

Something grabbed him from behind and began to drag him back. He craned his neck and saw Aziraphale, wide-eyed and untucked, holding on to his arm for dear life. With a great wrenching motion, Crowley ripped himself out of Hastur's iron grip and fell backwards onto the angel.

"Thank you," he said, scrambling up and offering Aziraphale a hand.

"You are a complete and total idiot," Aziraphale replied, and took it.

The thought ran through both of their minds in an endless marquee: it had nearly worked. Nearly. Nearly.

As each gripped the other's hand fiercely, dearly, like an anchor, like a lifeline, they saw Beelzebub. He had turned, and was watching them predatorily, his eyes narrowed to slits. His fiery nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth to speak—

Hastur lunged eagerly, hungrily—

Cerberus howled in desperate prayer—

And there was an answering whine, at a much higher pitch, muffled at first, then gaining strength, until at last it was the determined howl of a terrier with a mission.

In the space between stood a golden-haired boy and his dog.

"Hush, Dog," Adam said. "_Good_ dog."

Dog wagged his tail and cocked an ear at Cerberus, who grinned in response.

The boy looked at Hastur, who subsequently froze in mid-leap.

"I think you're supposed to be somewhere else, aren't you?" Adam said mildly.

Hastur gazed at him blankly, then nodded, relaxed, and wandered off in the direction of the central city's fires.

Adam shook his head sadly. "You don't _hit_ dogs," he said. It sounded like an order to the universe at large, and it probably was.

He glanced over at Beelzebub, whose perfect face was contorted in disgust and fury. "What's with him?" he asked Crowley and Aziraphale. They looked at one another helplessly, then turned back to Adam and shrugged.

"Thizz izz not your affair, boy," snarled Beelzebub. "Crowley hazz . . . he . . . muzzt be punishzed. Go home."

Adam took in his surroundings at a glance, the barren rock and singed, scrubby bushes, the charcoal and the flames. "I thought you thought this _was_ my home," he said.

"Oh, dear," said Aziraphale under his breath. Crowley clamped his hand like a vise, keeping his eyes on Adam.

There were practically heat waves rising from the Prince's immortal form. "Juzzt go!" he shouted. "Thisz doezz not conczern you!"

"Don't see why you're gettin' so upset," said Adam. "I haven't done anythin' yet. Why're you gettin' so upset? It's a waste of energy, gettin' all upset like that. Maybe you should bring my Father down so we can sort this out without you gettin' all upset."

"Do not try to intimidate me, Adam Young!" Crowley was highly reminded of the Metatron's temper tantrum; Beelzebub wore precisely the same expression. "Your Father izz not pleazzed with you; He will not vouch for you!"

"See, though, I think he would," replied Adam calmly. "He left them alone, didn't he?" He nodded at Crowley and Aziraphale. "An' he doesn't really care about them, does he? Whereas me . . . " Adam shrugged. "I'm just sayin', maybe we should get him."

The boy's tone snapped into an iron wall. "Or maybe you should _leave_."

Beelzebub was visibly shaken, but recovered himself quickly. "Fine," he said. "I will not dezztroy you. Not now. But do not try this again, boy. We do not have infinite patiencze."

He turned to Crowley. "Do not come back," the Lord of the Flies buzzed at him. "He will not be szo eager to protect you szoon."

He gave Aziraphale a cursory glance and sneered. "If ever you Fall," he said, laughing like a chainsaw, "I shall be the firszt to the kill. Depend upon it."

"Bye," said Adam, and Beelzebub was gone.

"Oh, dear God," said Aziraphale hollowly.

"Shut up!" hissed Crowley. He tried with moderate success to suppress a fit of terrified giggles.

The boy turned to Crowley and Aziraphale. Relief immediately evaporated, to be replaced by pants-wetting terror. They had never seen anyone look so angry.

"I _told_ you not to do this," he said flatly. "I _told_ you not to worry about it. You just don't _listen_. Why d'you think I said it if I didn't mean it?"

"Er," said Crowley.

"Ah," said Aziraphale.

"You see—"

"Look, I—I know what it's like to not understand stuff," Adam said in a strained voice. "My whole life is practic'ly not understandin' stuff. But haven't you ever had to just trust somebody?"

They looked at each other.

"No," said Aziraphale. "I don't think I ever have."

"Trusting demons would be a bit stupid, really," said Crowley.

"What, never?"

They shook their heads.

Adam sighed. "Well, you're gonna have to start," he said, "because you're done around here, you know. Not much use tryin' to go to the top."

"Yeah," Crowley said morosely. "We've _been_ to the top. Didn't help."

"Not one of my better ideas," Aziraphale admitted.

Adam shrugged and sat down Indian-style on the warm stones. "I kinda thought you might do somethin' like this. Grown-ups never listen to kids. It's really wossname, typical behaviour. Thing."

"We're not—" Aziraphale began.

"Yeah, all right, but you see what I mean," said Adam. He scratched Dog's ears. "And it wouldn't've been so bad, either, if you hadn't done that stupid thing with the doors."

As one, the demon, the angel, the hounds, and the boy turned to look at the portal, still hanging in the air. It still flickered with vaguely purplish lights and generally maintained an appearance that would cost about three thousand pounds worth of CGI to create on Earth.

"Not to, er, break the dramatic flow or anything," Crowley said, "but what exactly did we do?"

Dog, sensing his master's mood, gave the demon the scathing look that Adam was too polite to indulge in.

"See? That's what I mean," Adam said. "Stupid. I bet _you_ weren't ever taught how to open a door without the circle," he added, nodding to Aziraphale, "an' somebody just showed _you_ the motions of it an' none of the safety stuff." He glanced at Crowley. "Right?"

"Broadly," said Crowley.

"Specifically, actually," said Aziraphale.

Adam exhaled sharply and absentmindedly finger-combed his hair. "Well, I can't explain it that well, 'cos I wasn't never taught about it." He made a face. "We learned about jography and cirrus clouds instead. But basic'ly you can't open a door to Heaven right next to a door to Hell, or else they get sort of . . . stuck together, right? Like if you're making jam toast and peanut butter toast and you pick up the peanut butter toast to eat it, but you drop it an' it lands on the jam and they get all stuck together." He looked at their politely confused expressions. "Never mind. The point is, they turn into just _one_ door, from Heaven to Hell, and the defences from the one door cancel out the ones on the other, and vicey versey." He gave a derisive sniff. "Not that they're very good _anyway_. I could do better."

"Why in God's—" Aziraphale stopped, glancing around nervously, before continuing: "Why weren't we told? It's rather important!"

"Dunno," said Adam, shrugging. "Like I said, I could do better, but it's not my place." He grinned. "Now, if it were me, I'd maybe make it so Heaven an' Hell an' Earth were all together in one place. Then we could just use trains an' things, and things wouldn't get so messed up all the time."

Crowley snorted. "You don't use public transportation much, do you?" he said dryly.

"Anyway." Adam sighed. "What're you guys gonna do? You can't come back here, or go Upstairs. Where—"

They looked at the boy in astonishment. He shrugged again.

"I heard all of it," he said. "Shouting all up an' down all over the place. Gave Dog a headache. The Metatron's pretty loud, isn't it?" He laughed, the joyful, not-so-innocent laugh of a child enjoying a prank. "Did you really throw a rock at it?"

Aziraphale looked shocked. "Did you?" he asked Crowley reproachfully.

"It's really annoying," muttered Crowley.

"Oh my." Aziraphale covered his eyes with one hand. "I will never be able to show my face in Heaven again."

"I didn't get the impression that they particularly wanted you to, _angel_," said Crowley.

"That's what I was sayin'," Adam interjected. "You're out. You could've just gone on for a while, you know, not knowin', but sooner or later you'd've been tossed. It turned out to be sooner, I guess. So where d'you want to go?"

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, a question in his eyes. The demon grinned.

"St. James's Park," he said.

"Where?" said Adam blankly.

"In London," said Aziraphale. "It's where we started from."

"Oh," said Adam. He looked from one to the other, then nodded.

Dog rolled his eyes at Cerberus. He meant, What drama, eh?

Cerberus gave him a nudge. He meant, You have no idea.

"Let's go, then," Adam said.

This time it worked. Aziraphale could hear the ducks over the roar of their passage, and Crowley tasted the hint of London traffic in the air.

They left the portal open, winking occasionally, floating amiably in a crevice of Hell.

8. If he had been wearing a trenchcoat at this juncture and had mentioned the word 'basement' in this sentence somewhere, this sequence could have gone an entirely different way.

9. No, not the heads of the VISA Corporation.

10. A surprisingly contagious habit.

11. Which is three times more soulful than the usual doggie kind, and highly toxic, particularly to demons and damned souls. As a result, Cerberus was quite spoilt.

12. Part of the reason for the Metatron's obvious emotional imbalance was the fact that it refused to curse, even in situations in which expletives were very much warranted, such as, for example, when Heaven is being invaded. Saying 'fiddlesticks' very rarely helps in these circumstances.


	3. Reactions

_For summary, rating, disclaimer, author's notes, etc., please see Part I._

---

**III. REACTIONS**

---

_Fire. Fire, fire, fire, everywhere there are flames. Burn the books? Smoke in his face—how could he have missed this? He should have seen—but falling now, every shelf falling, every dogeared page crackling and crisping, never to be read again. Where, where, where, where? The idiot, idiot, idiot—stupid. Can't be, would never let—_

_Smoke, smoke in his face, in his hair, he's pale and covered in soot and alone. Empty and gone. All gone._

_Flames lick his leg. The air is thick and hot, and Az—_

---

Crowley woke with a start.

He glanced around, realizing he was on the couch, and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in it. How had that gotten there? He didn't allow _cracks_ in his ceiling. It was completely out of character for the type of human he was supposed to be to have cracks in the ceiling. Also, this crack was shaped like a rabbit. He hated rabbits, especially in stews.

He squinted at the ceiling.

Nothing happened. He had meant for something to happen, but nothing had happened.

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh _shit_—

He sat up and realized absently that he was shaking. He stared up at the ceiling again, squinted hard—nothing.

Then he felt something moving through his (sort of) veins. It was familiar, and fuzzy, and . . . ah, yes. He blinked, and the headache he hadn't realized he'd had vanished along with the sluggish alcohol in his system.

He squinted at the ceiling again, then grinned triumphantly(13) as the crack mended itself. Nothing to worry about. Just an alcoholic demon, right? No problems there.

No reason to worry, of course. He'd said that there wouldn't be any changes made, just . . . no communication. This was naturally somewhat disconcerting, not having someone telling one what to do and so forth, but on the positive side, Crowley might now be able to get through an entire thirty-minute programme without having a voice of eldritch command break in to tell him to get off his arse and go damn some souls. He brightened up. This would be most excellent. At last he could indulge in the infamous human habit of watching a television show to the end and then relating it in incoherent fragments to a friend, finishing by looking at them as if they're totally mad for not comprehending the hilarity of it all. He'd refrained from tormenting Aziraphale with this up until now, but given their situation and the fact that Aziraphale was in essence the only entity he actually knew and did not hate, he might as well—

Aziraphale. Where was Aziraphale?

Panic flooded through him again(14). All right, all right, he'd—he'd found the angel Below, he'd nearly got him out . . . yes, and then there was Adam. But then what? He'd obviously consumed vast quantities of alcohol, but had Aziraphale as well? Was he in Soho, or here, or on the bottom of a river somewhere, or—

The sensible bit of Crowley's brain told him that Aziraphale could take care of himself. He told it to shut up, and then stood up and began to run from one end of the flat to the other, checking behind lamps, in dressers, under cushions, and in the toilet, on the basis that he might as well be thorough. Shockingly, the angel was not to be found in any of those places.

Crowley squinted fretfully into the television's VCR slot, then withdrew, in the process managing to simultaneously get his finger stuck in the little door and bang his head on the roof of the cabinet in which it was housed. He swore and kicked it. It didn't improve the situation much, and now his foot hurt.

He sat down on the couch again. "Okay, Crowley, okay," he said aloud, pulling at his lower lip nervously. "If you were a bloody dense Principality with a book fetish who'd just been sort of fired but not really, exactly, strictly speaking, where would you go? Um."

He shook his head. No. That would definitely not work. His imagination could only stretch so far.

He could always just check the regular places. The bookshop, St. James, the Ritz. . . . But really, did Aziraphale ever go out except with him? The angel out on the town? It was difficult to imagine, not to mention potentially embarrassing. Still, he hadn't any better ideas.

Crowley stood up and had already snapped a pair of sunglasses into existence, prepared to slink out the door, when he noticed something out of place. The door to his bedroom was ajar. He always kept it closed; it seemed almost like a private space, considering that it was the only place in the apartment that he ever actually used. He walked over to it suspiciously and pushed it all the way open.

Ah. He sagged with something like relief. One mystery solved.

There, on the opulent, rich burgundy sheets that Crowley occasionally felt nearly self-conscious about, lay Aziraphale: legs splayed wide, hands tucked under his cheek, golden hair sticking up and flattened down in places in a less than angelic way. He was still fully clothed, except for his tie, which he had probably decided might choke him in his sleep and was hanging half-on, half-off the bed. There was an empty wine bottle standing on the floor next to the bed, and another one that had fallen over. Crowley bent over to look at the labels; to his not-very-great surprise, they were excellent vintages and slightly dusty in a pleasant way.

He sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall, as there was no furniture in the room other than the bed and a lamp. So they'd come back from . . . well, just about everywhere imaginable, actually . . . and gotten completely blitzed. That was becoming a habit. It was a good thing neither of them used their livers. And then he'd, what, told Aziraphale to stay? Apparently. He couldn't imagine why, but that's how it seemed.

Oh, honestly. Yes, he very well could imagine why, _actually_. That was bloody terrifying. How many times in a month did the stupid angel have to go and get himself discorporated or etherealised or trapped in Hell or what have you? He'd really thought Aziraphale was going to get himself permanently taken out of commission Downstairs. It would have been horribly selfish of him. What could Crowley possibly do without someone to reprimand him all the time? It had an odd attraction, once he'd gotten used to it. And, yes, the angel was pretty good company, if a bit—all right, extremely—stuffy. Existence would be quite boring without him. Plus he'd have to get drunk alone, which is infinitely less entertaining.

So he'd thought Aziraphale would be, for want of a better word, killed, and—he realized now with a wince—he'd gone back Down There in a horrifically chivalrous fashion and nearly saved his semi-divine arse. He'd failed in the end, of course, but it was the effort that counted, as Aziraphale said far too often. Oh, he would never live this down. That thrice-blessed spark of goodness! It completely ruined his infernal cred.

. . . Although technically he didn't have one now, except with Aziraphale, who would of course smile at him in an irritatingly benevolent fashion for a good long while as a result of yesterday's exploits. But really, what was he supposed to do? It wasn't the angel's fault he'd fallen in; they'd put the portals too close together. And there was no way that Crowley . . .

. . . would lose him again.

Oh, fuck. The bookshop on fire . . . on fire! How could he possibly be afraid of fire? But he had been. He'd been through the actual gates of actual Hell, but the burning, crumbling doorway of the bookshop had been far more terrifying to pass through. He'd nearly lost it right there, which didn't make much sense, considering how he acted later on—still mostly calm, mostly in control, driving in a damn flaming car through the English countryside, nearly facing down Himself . . . but in the bookshop, with stupid firemen running about even though it was obviously useless, and no sign of the angel anywhere, and clouds and clouds of black smoke, he'd nearly gone mad with fear. Things were just easier and better when Aziraphale was behind the counter, or drinking hot cocoa, or burying his nose in some ancient tome and waving Crowley away frustratedly. Even when doing something impossibly dangerous, he felt more comfortable in Aziraphale's presence.

Crowley looked at the angel on his bed for a moment. It was very odd to see someone else in his bed, particularly Aziraphale, who, he noticed, clashed horribly with the sheets. Aziraphale was not meant for burgundy. Perhaps a soft blue would work better.

Crowley blinked, and it was so. Aziraphale was tucked under an extremely fluffy down comforter in an ocean blue. Crowley glared at the visible corner of the angel's sleeve, which had become, oh no, a tartan nightshirt. He shook his head. Absolutely incorrigible. Even in his sleep, Aziraphale offended his sensibilities. He deserved to be subjected to terrible hellish unpleasantness.

Crowley hit him with a pillow. That would have to do for the moment.

"Wsfgl?" said Aziraphale from underneath the pillow.

Crowley lifted it up. "Morning, sunshine," he said cheerfully. "You're in my bed. And we aren't dead! Isn't that lovely? Shall I make some tea?"

"I repeat: wsfgl?" moaned Aziraphale, hiding under the blankets. "Oh, my _head_ . . . "

"Alcohol. Sober up. Do you want that tea or not?"

"What is it about 'wsfgl' that you do not understand, demon?"

Crowley grinned and poked at the angel. "Hot chocolate, then?"

Aziraphale glared balefully out at him from inside his cocoon of blankets. "You are not nice," he proclaimed. "Are you always this cheerful in the morning? I shall never sleep again. Waking up is horrible."

"Not if you're sober." Crowley yanked the covers off, eliciting a shriek from the angel, who tried to curl up into a ball and disappear. "This is embarrassing, Aziraphale. Get up or I'll . . . I'll sing a song."

"What?"

"Just . . . just get up, all right?"

"I hate you." Aziraphale stood up. He noticed the nightshirt and glared again. "Oh, ha ha, Crowley. Mocking my fashion sense while I'm asleep, _very_ mature."

"I didn't mean to, believe me. It's something to do with your aura. You exude tartan rays like a snail exudes slime. Or something like that. Hup hup, get out of here, you're infecting my room with goodness." Crowley prodded Aziraphale in the small of the back. "March!"

Aziraphale grumbled his way into the stark and stylish kitchen. The cabinets and appliances were built into the wall, so that instead of having shelves and things sticking out this way and that, there was a flat wall with handles in it. It was something like being in a spaceship, or so it was assumed.

"Where's my bloody cocoa?" said Aziraphale.

"You are not a morning person, are you?" said Crowley, turning around to set some water up to boil in his stark and stylish countertop kettle.

"Thank you so much for that dose of refreshing insight, Mister Obviousman." There was a thunk from behind Crowley as Aziraphale flopped his head onto the table. "Ow."

"Watch it, you'll dent my furniture," the demon drawled, stirring a proportionally enormous amount of chocolate powder (which had not been in his cabinets yesterday and would not be there tomorrow) into the water.

"Don't make me hurt you," said Aziraphale, looking up. "It would not look good on your recor—um." His eyes glazed over. "Um," he said again. "Uhh. . . . "

"Yes, yes, and yes," said Crowley pleasantly. "Both of us said some rather rude things to our supervisors, and to the other's supervisors, and then it all went to Hell, and we had to be rescued by the boy—again—and he wasn't awfully pleased about it, and basically we're on our own. And that was yesterday. Have some cocoa." He sat down and plunked the cup in front of Aziraphale, purposefully splashing a bit onto his hand.

"Ow." Aziraphale wiped the chocolate off his hand. He took a small sip. Then he blinked. "That was a truly horrific pun, Crowley."

"What?" Crowley stared at him.

"_You_ know. 'It all went to Hell'? When in fact we _did_ go to Hell? I know that you have to do these things to keep up appearances, but please, next time, spare me."

Crowley gave him a long, hard look. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. After a moment he said, "Aziraphale, I would really, really appreciate it if you would shut up and drink your fucking hot chocolate before I go stark raving mad all over my expensive appliances."

The angel glowered at him and took a larger sip, then another. His face loosened up a bit, Crowley saw with no little relief.

Gazing around, Crowley suddenly noticed which cup he'd given Aziraphale. He'd gotten it with a commendation he'd received in the early nineteen-eighties and had hated it on sight. It was cheerfully festooned with depictions of shredded organs and unidentifiable bodily fluids, and it read, in large, blocky black letters:

YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE AN EVIL BASTARD TO WORK HERE, BUT IT HELPS AND IF YOU'RE NOT WE MAKE YOU INTO HIDEOUS CHIPPED CERAMICS

Crowley stared at it. Then he smoothly switched it to a pleasant if nauseating teddy bear motif.

He didn't see the corners of the angel's mouth twitch.

A thick silence grew out of the table between them. It seemed to sprout from the steam of Aziraphale's cocoa, spreading thinner and wider, but no less potent. It was choking.

Aziraphale clutched his hands around his cup. "I am finding it rather difficult to believe," he said, "that we did what I remember us doing. And that we got out of it relatively unscathed. And that it was my idea."

Crowley shrugged. "We didn't really do anything," he said blandly.

The angel regarded him solemnly for a moment. "Perhaps not," he murmured. "But how many angels have been to Hell and come back?"

"You didn't come back to Heaven, though. Anyway, what difference does it make?"

Aziraphale hesitated, looking at the tabletop. "I think I might . . . understand it better now," he said.

"Understand what?"

"How you think. What you feel." He put a hand on Crowley's and patted it lightly.

Crowley pulled his hand away. "No." He crossed his arms. "No, you don't."

Running his fingers over the handle, Aziraphale gazed at him, a slight crease between his brows. It was an odd look to be subjected to; it made Crowley feel a bit like a defective mechanism and a bit like a goldfish.

"What did you see Up There, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked.

"It was . . . cold," Crowley said.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. A flicker of pain passed over his face.

"What happened to them, Aziraphale?"

"Well." Aziraphale smiled weakly. "They forgot, my dear."

"No-one remembers?"

The angel sighed. "A few have faint memories, perhaps. Misplaced, though. Confused."

"But He remembers," Crowley said. Bits of yesterday were still sneaking into his mind, giving him sheepish looks, and that particular memory was jumping up and down and waving at him.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Perhaps He does," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Don't say the word," Crowley warned.

"I didn't!"

"You were going to. I can tell, you know."

"What do you think about death, Crowley?"

"You—what?" Crowley stared at him. "That's something of a non sequitor, isn't it? Are you serious?"

"Yes. I usually am."

"Well, I don't. We don't die."

"We can," Aziraphale said. "I thought I was going to."

Crowley laughed uneasily. "I can't imagine you'd stand for being dead. You don't usually put up with that sort of thing." He stood up. "More cocoa?"

"No, thank you. Crowley—"

"Tea? Coffee? Water?" He started flinging through the cabinets in search of the coffee pot.

"Hastur wanted to kill me, Crowley—"

"I know that, I was there," Crowley snapped. A Rubbermaid container that he certainly did not own bounced off his head and clattered onto the floor.

"—because he'd missed you when you came," Aziraphale finished calmly over the rattling.

Crowley, currently leaning over to retrieve the container from the spotless floor, wobbled a bit on his feet. "Um," he said.

"He didn't think you'd come back for me," Aziraphale continued, watching him closely.

"Er. . . ."

"Crowley, why _did _you come back for me?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Didn't really have a choice, did I? The doors and all."

"Why did you hit Hastur?"

"Bodily instinct, I suppose." Crowley shrugged.

"You were very matter-of-fact about the whole thing."

"I was terrified," Crowley heard himself say.

"Oh?" The angel was regarding him sceptically.

"I was!" Crowley said, and wondered why he was emphasizing something he hadn't meant to say in the first place.

Aziraphale stood and stretched luxuriously. "If you say so, my dear." He took his cup over to the painfully clean sink and rinsed it out.

"Why is it so difficult for you to comprehend the possibility that I might experience fear on occasion?" Crowley said, beginning to get annoyed.

"I never said it was impossible, Crowley," Aziraphale replied, peering into the mug. "I don't often experience fear, so perhaps I don't recognise the signs, but I've never seen you act particularly afraid of anything."

"You must be blind, then."

"Oh, you can be quite the coward. But cowardice and fear are two very different things."

Crowley screwed up his face. "No-o," he said after a moment. "No, they really aren't."

"Regardless." Aziraphale frowned and miracled up a bottle of soap and a sponge.

Nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, so Crowley said, "I suppose you don't see most of the things that frighten me."

"Of course. In any case, you would pretend it didn't bother you if you thought I knew."

Crowley smirked. "Naturally. I—" He started, staring at the opposite wall with a glazed look on his face.

"Are you quite all right, dear boy?" Aziraphale inquired, scrubbing away resolutely.

"Hmm?" Crowley blinked. "What? Oh. Yes. I'm all right. I was just remembering when the shop burned down. I think I—"

"My shop? You were there when it happened?" Aziraphale looked up, surprised.

"Looking for you, yeah. Quite honestly, angel, I wasn't expecting the inferno."

Aziraphale sighed. "It must have been terrible. All those books. . . ."

"You. . . ." He was unbelievable. He was completely unbelievable. "That wasn't my biggest concern at the time, Aziraphale," Crowley managed.

"Well, naturally not," said the angel, rinsing the mug again and breathing it dry. "We were all rather tense, what with the End Times and so forth." He handed it to Crowley with a gentle smile. "There you are, my dear."

"Why didn't you just wish the stupid thing clean?" Crowley said, taking it carelessly by the handle. "It's far easier. You probably kill more germs that way, too."

Aziraphale waved an arm vaguely. "Sensory experiences," he said. "I find them to be quite enjoyable."

Since he couldn't think of a proper answer to that statement, Crowley put the cup away. As he shut the cabinet door with a snap, relaxing the kitchen back into its perfect lines, he caught a glimpse of red and black.

"Is that what you meant by fear, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, leaning back against the counter slightly. "Being afraid for the world? That seems more like common sense than pain, particularly in the situation in question."

Crowley shook his head. "That isn't it," he said. "Not really. Of course I was afraid for the world, it was about to bloody end. But just then it was more than that, it was the fire and the shop gone and—"

"You feared for your own safety?" Aziraphale frowned. "You didn't go in, did you?"

"You weren't outside, and the shop was on fire," Crowley snapped. "What choice did I have, exactly?"

Aziraphale opened and shut his mouth a few times. He looked like a fish, but it was Crowley who felt like he was under glass. Or perhaps—perhaps walking on glass. Thin glass. Over a canyon with spikes at the bottom. Poisoned spikes with horrible little microbes on the ends. And any second now, something would snap.

"You didn't need to have gone inside, Crowley," Aziraphale protested weakly. "You couldn't have helped me—"

"How was I supposed to know—?" He bit his tongue.

"I understand your fears, and I am very sorry I was not able to help you dispose of Hastur, but—"

"Bless it, Aziraphale!" Crowley shouted. "Don't you get it yet? I was scared for _you_! Not for me! And not because I know you! Because I—"

He stopped, teeth clenched, eyes hidden. Then he extended a fist, turned around, and punched the wall. Bits of plaster fell from the hole he made there. Half a cockroach gave him a surprised look.

"Go home, Aziraphale," Crowley said, not looking at the angel. "Go home." He turned around slowly and went into the living room. Aziraphale heard the television switch on.

The angel cocked his head for a moment. Then he gave a tiny, nervous smile. He got up and went into the entrance hall of the flat, which was unseasonably chilly. There were potted plants here and there. Aziraphale felt as if they were scrutinizing him. He reached for his coat, searched in a pocket—and—yes, it was still there—extracted a small volume from inside. Then he padded into the living room.

He sat down next to Crowley, close but not touching.

"I thought I told you to go home," Crowley said dully, staring through the television. Aziraphale glanced at it. Apparently someone was having troubles in love, but in a humorous way, at least in the opinion of whoever controlled the laugh track. He would never understand television.

Aziraphale opened the book and passed it wordlessly to Crowley, who looked at him incredulously.

"Really?" he said.

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley shrugged and turned his eyes back to the page.

"Great are the myths . . . . I too delight in them,

Great are Adam and Eve"—Crowley flinched here—". . . . I too look back and accept them;

Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, women, sages,

inventors, rulers, warriors, and priests. . . .

"Great is today, and beautiful,

It is good to live in this age . . . . there never was any better. . . .

"Great are yourself and myself,

We are just as good and bad as the oldest and youngest

or any,

What the best and worst did we could do,

What they felt . . do not we feel it in ourselves?

What they wished . . do we not wish the same? . . .

"Great is the earth, and the way it became what it is,

Do you imagine it is stopped at this? . . . . and the increase abandoned? . . .

"Great is goodness;

I do not know what it is any more than I know what health is . . . .

but I know it is great.

"Great is wickedness . . . . I find I often admire it just as much as I

admire goodness:

Do you call that a paradox? It certainly is a paradox.

"The eternal equilibrium of things is great, and the eternal

overthrow of things is great,

And there is another paradox."(15)

Aziraphale retrieved the book, stuck his thumb in it to mark the place, and looked at Crowley expectantly.

The demon was staring at him with a mix of horror and amusement. "Er. Having another Whitman month, I take it?" he said, at a loss.

"Indeed. What did you think?"

"What do I—what? What is my response supposed to be?" Crowley asked. "'Oh my paws and whiskers, I never thought of it that way, let's skip with glee through the fields of marigolds?'"

"No. You're just supposed to think about it."

"Fine. Can I think about it while watching television?"

"If you like," said Aziraphale, slightly miffed.

They watched the show. After a while, Aziraphale said, "So, let me see if I've got this . . . his wife is homosexual—but he isn't—and he's been cheating on her with this woman, and _she's_ been cheating on _him_ with the same woman, who doesn't know they're married and who owns a cat who constantly wants to be fed during key moments of intercourse. Have I got that right?"

"Yup," said Crowley, entranced.

"I honestly do not know what to make of that, my dear," said Aziraphale weakly.

"That's part of the point."

"What's the other part?"

"Oh, to reduce people to drooling automatons incapable of doing anything but sitting in front of the television all day, of course," said Crowley airily.

"Right." Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who looked at a woman on-screen (she may have been the lesbian wife, but Aziraphale was unsure). He sighed. "Crowley?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you hear any of what I just said?"

"Yes, Aziraphale."

"Did you think about it?"

"Yes, Aziraphale."

"Well?"

"Dunno, Aziraphale."

"I am not a schoolmarm, Crowley, and you know I hate it when you act like I am."

"Dun' hit me with the yardstick, Aziraphale, please, miss."

Aziraphale slapped him on the back of the head. "I mean it."

"Aziraphale," said Crowley in a strained voice, "I hate it when you literate at me. You read something to me and expect me to understand what you're trying to say. I don't. I'm not you. Give me a clue, would you?"

The angel shook his head and smiled. "I think you underestimate yourself, Crowley," he said. "But I can spell it out for you. I just find Whitman to be significantly more elegant in expression than I am, even on my best day."

"Plus, by quoting you avoid having to actually say it yourself," Crowley pointed out.

"There is that," Aziraphale agreed.

"Not sure I like that idea."

"Neither am I. Now turn off that eternally damned device and pay attention."

Crowley retrieved the remote from its hideout amongst the cushions and switched off the television. There was a snap of static as the screen went black. He looked at Aziraphale expectantly.

"Er." Aziraphale fidgeted with his fingers. "My dear . . . we have been on this earth for longer than any other beings, haven't we? We've 'gone native', as they say." (Crowley could _hear_ the quotation marks slot into place.) "And we can't go back Up or Down at this point, not after yesterday. So we are essentially human, just . . . indefinitely so. I haven't Fallen, and you haven't un-Fallen; we've more accurately . . . " He snapped his fingers(16), searching for the words.

"Acclimatized?" suggested Crowley.

"I suppose, yes," said Aziraphale. "But it has seemed to me for many years that we are less like either side than we are like the middle."

"Middle?"

"Humans, I meant."

"But humans aren't the middle," Crowley argued. "They're . . . they're . . . " He waved a hand forcefully, nearly concussing the angel. "The rest of it. The people with sense. Except when they misplace it, of course. It needs a beeper."

"What?"

Crowley sighed. "Never mind. My point is, you really can't compare humans with Hastur, Aziraphale. Or Gabriel or Michael or whoever. They're on completely different planes of existence."

"True. But my point still stands. We've changed a lot since the Garden."

"So has everything," Crowley pointed out.

"We've changed with it, though," said Aziraphale. "I don't think that was the original intention."

"But it was worth it," said Crowley. "Don't you think?"

"Actually, I do," said the angel. "It doesn't really matter if I say it now, so yes, I do. Heaven is nothing compared to Earth. It isn't just that, though. I think . . . we're not affiliated anymore, are we?"

"I think I can declare the answer to that question an emphatic 'no'."

"I feel that it's time we started living, for lack of a better word, for ourselves." Aziraphale covered Crowley's mouth with one hand with a speed that could only be described as superhuman. "No, don't say anything. Listen. Can you honestly say that you've done more than the occasional experiment into humanity?" He removed his hand.

"Of course I ha—" Crowley snapped, and then stopped and actually thought about the question. "No," he said slowly. "No, I don't think I have. It's mostly been blending-in things. Togas, doublets, cravats, and suits, but nothing particularly interesting, excepting the Bentley." He grimaced. "After all, demons don't have free will."

Aziraphale snorted. "Naturally not."

"Bloody hell," breathed Crowley. "Bloody hell. Here I thought I was an expert on humanity. I don't know a damn thing."

"You know more than I do."

"That really isn't saying much, angel."

"Do you want to learn?"

Crowley rubbed his forehead. "Learn in general, or learn something specific?" he said. "I'm not terribly interested in poetry and whatnot."

"In general," said Aziraphale. "We have eternity, after all."

"Well, yes. I do. But we _haven't _any free will. Just because we've been relieved of our duties—"

"Well, we can damn well create some free will!" Aziraphale exploded. "It's been six thousand years, Crowley, and we've spent the whole time just . . . just messin' about! It's a waste! There is no time but the present!"

Crowley blinked. "Isn't that some Zen thing?" he managed.

Aziraphale growled and buried his hands in his hair. "I don't know," he said. "I don't _know_. We deserve to know. People like Gabriel, like the Metatron, they can't imagine what it's like—there's nothing to _know_ in Heaven. It all just . . . just _is_. But down here you never stop learning. And we haven't even started." He exhaled slowly. "Six. Thousand. Years. Oh . . . sugar."

Crowley scuffed his feet on the carpet. "It is pretty frustrating, now you mention it," he said. "I mean . . . everything there is, we've been part of it, right from the Start. I was the Serpent, and you gave her your sword, and they probably wouldn't have lasted a week without it. If it's all ineffable, then we did a bloody good job."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. He sounded tired. "That's exactly it."

There was silence for a few moments, comfortable, contemplative silence. They were sitting just close enough together that the edges of their auras intermingled. It was like the very beginnings of a sneeze: an itch at the back of the nose of the soul.

Outside there was a screech. Some car doors slammed, and lo, there was shouting.

The itch got itchier.

"You know," said Aziraphale after a while, "being down here all this time, I think, has made me appreciate the little things more(17)."

"Like a good book?"

"Very funny. No, I mean . . . sitting next to someone. Body warmth. It's a very human comfort." Aziraphale frowned, half-raising one hand from the arm of the couch. "You should know. . . ." He looked right at Crowley, in the same way he had yesterday afternoon in St. James', his gaze gentle but unwavering and peering directly into the demon's soul, and he gave the world's most genuine smile.

And Crowley _got it_.

To his great annoyance, he found himself flushing. "Should have left you down there," he muttered. He didn't look away.

Aziraphale laughed, once, gently, and didn't say anything.

Crowley sighed and looked at his hands. They were long and tapered, part of the graceful, romantic unreality that a part of everyone secretly wishes they were. There was a gash on the palm of his left hand from where he'd hit Hastur. It was clean: he must have still had the self-possession after getting back to curse the germs away, or use hydrogen peroxide, or something.

A pale hand rested itself on his open palm. Crowley watched as the perfectly manicured fingers fretted their way up and down the tiny wound, searching for any vestiges of contamination and pain and miracling them away in half a heartbeat. At last they ceased this activity and came to rest at the very centre of his palm, touching lightly.

Feeling quite drunk for the nth time in the last twenty-four hours, Crowley looked up from the slightly pudgy fingers to the slightly pudgy face, and wondered distantly what the Hell was going on.

"It doesn't matter," he heard himself say aloud.

Aziraphale looked puzzled. "What doesn't?" he said.

"Oh . . . nothing," said Crowley, with feeling.

"Do you mean," Aziraphale began, "that nothing matters, or that nothing doesn't matter?"

Crowley grinned and shook his head. "Yes."

Aziraphale gave him a Look. "That statement was either very wise," he said, "or insultingly flippant. How should I interpret it?"

"Oh, as wise, of course," Crowley said airily.

There was an air of sniggeritude in the air. Crowley scowled at the crown of thorns, which had the decency to look mildly abashed.

"I'm going to have to shred these plants, you know," he said to Aziraphale.

The angel looked shocked. "Whatever for?"

"Think about it. You've been here for hours and I haven't threatened you with leafy death yet. They'll go soft." Crowley stood up. "Unless, of course, you want to go somewhere else," he said casually.

Aziraphale shook his head. "My dear," he said solemnly, standing up as well and putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder, "you are about as opaque as glass. Get your coat."

---

They ended up at St. James's. It had rained overnight, and there was a sense of dew in the air, although it was past noon and quite dry.

Crowley and Aziraphale walked, not quite touching, meandering down a familiar path. Neither of them said anything; they didn't need to.

Eventually, Crowley stopped and glanced at Aziraphale, who nodded and began to poke through the bushes. Crowley stood just behind him, scanning the trees over his shoulder.

"There." They said it at the same time.

It looked about the same—lusher, perhaps; more verdant. Scufflings in the bushes indicated a thriving rodent community. One of them stepped on an anthill. There was the occasional unromantic _plop_ of birdshit on leaves.

And there was a long scorch mark in the grass.

Crowley inspected it for a moment. "Huh," was all he said.

He looked up at Aziraphale, waiting for a reaction, but the angel was—was _smelling_. He was sniffing the air, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley waved a hand in his face. "Did I slip something in that cocoa by accident?"

"Can't you smell it?" Aziraphale's voice was far off.

"Smell what?" Crowley glared at the angel suspiciously, but sniffed a few times anyway, quickly.

"It smells like. . . ."

"Eden," Crowley said wonderingly. He closed his eyes and nearly choked on the animal musk and the memories. Without meaning to, he flicked his tongue rapidly, tasting the air.

"Do you ever miss it?"

Crowley opened his eyes. Aziraphale was looking right at him, his gaze direct and open. Crowley thought a moment before answering, but what he said was, "No."

They regarded each other across the stillness for a long moment, until Crowley grinned and Aziraphale ducked his head, and they walked out without a backwards glance.

After a moment, Crowley grabbed the angel by the shoulder. When Aziraphale looked back, surprised, Crowley enfolded him in an awkward, one-armed hug, tighter than he meant.

Aziraphale gave him a smile, although it was slightly pained because his ribs were being compressed, and leaned his head in close.

They mingled, the air between them purple and full of promise.

This was the first day of the rest of their lives.

13. If you've never seen someone squint and grin triumphantly at the same time, you have so far in your life been deprived of a fantastically hilarious experience. Pay someone to do it in front of you. It's worth it.

14. It was very fortunate for Crowley that the adrenal glands do not burst from overexcitement.

15. "Great Are the Myths," Whitman, _Leaves of Grass_, first edition.

16. But not very well.

17. Not that there really are any little things in Heaven.


End file.
